Catalyst
by LuciusOctivus
Summary: When a modern Englishman dies in a car crash and finds himself in asoiaf, he gets the shock of his life. Forced into an impossible situation, he's armed with only his wits and knowledge of things to come. Will he fall into despair or forge his own destiny? A self-insert fanfiction.
1. Prologue: A Jump in the Deep End

**Catalyst**

 **Prologue: A Jump in the Deep End**

* * *

I awoke with a gasp.

Lying in bed, the first thing I saw was rotten wooden boards that formed what one could charitable call a ceiling. I shut my eyes, feeling a rapid pulse behind them and a slight ringing in my ears. My skin was itchy and slick with sweat, drenching the unfamiliar bedding and itchy covers. My body wasn't much better, riddled with cramps while my stomach rolled like I had just consumed half-cooked food.

I felt like throwing up, and I did. All over the bedsheets.

Wiping my mouth with the cleanest bit, I glanced around the room; my awareness of the world slowly coming back to me, but not fast enough. The room didn't look familiar, not in the slightest. It was dirty and bare, with wooden floors, wooden walls and shutters that had been left closed. Thanks to that, the interior was so stuffy I could barely breathe.

 _Where am I?_ The last thing I could remember was walking to college where I'd been crossing the road. There was a car and . . .

 _Jesus, I need some air_.

Wherever I was in, it didn't look like a hospital room. Or it was and the NHS really was as bankrupt as the news claimed. That or . . . I didn't know. The pain in my stomach was soon ignored as I tried to figure what where I was – a messily chaotic room rank with the smell of sweat and shit and sick. Perhaps the person that hit me didn't want to be tried for car offenses so he abducted and threw me into what looked like a fairly large shed.

Wherever I was, I was going and make as much distance between myself and this place as possible.

With a groan, I threw back the soiled covers and sat up from the bed that might as well be solid wood for how hard it felt. That took more effort than expected and I felt faint from the effort, though not enough to stop me. Wiping the dark-hair out my eyes, I stood up, feet wobbling beneath my body. A part of me wanted to lay down, curl up into a ball and wait this out. But I couldn't. I needed to leave. That was until I looked down that I realised something. I wasn't wearing clothes – which was a creepy realisation in itself – and that that my body looked different. It was shorter and gone was my flabby body with weedy arms. It was lean and slim with noticeable muscle. My skin was tanned as well, not the pasty white that came with isolating oneself from the sun.

Almost tripping, I painfully staggered to a mirror above a bowl of water.

Looking into the polished reflection, I stared wide eyed. The first thing I noticed was my hair. It wasn't brown, it was blue; brushing down to my shoulders in curly waves. I pulled the silken strands back and if I just thought my hair was dyed an absurd colour, I was wrong. The roots were blond, so pale they looked white. Looking from the hair to my eyes, they too had changed. They weren't brown either, they were dark blue and framed by long eyelashes like that of a girl. That wasn't to mention the face itself. The face staring back at me was younger, delicate and boyish.

 _What the bloody fuck is going on?_

I staggered back, my hands on the face that I was certain wasn't my own. It took a few moments of heavy breathing before my mind began to calm from the revelation. _Ok_ , I said to myself, trying to take deep and steady breaths. The last thing I remember is nearly being hit by a car in jolly old London and then finding myself into a shed with a different face and blue-hair that makes me look like a Fire Emblems character. It didn't help by the fact the face that stared back at me looked bishie as hell.

That was when my mind began trying to make justifications on what was happening. Maybe the mirror was a screen or something, that couldn't have been my face. It couldn't have been a prank, could it? I shook my head and looked once more at the face before me. It was young, possibly ten years of age. That couldn't have been true. I was twenty, nearing twenty-one. Either it was an elaborate conspiracy against me, a complete hallucination, or I was suffering a serious breakdown . . . Maybe it was something else . . .

 _Yes, a hallucination or breakdown_. That was what I considered true at that moment. To try and bring myself together, I ran my hands through my hair and splashed my face with the water within the bowl. The water was cool and for that I was thankful.

It felt stuffy in the room. It had been hot, and now there was a sheen of sweat forming that felt freezing. I shivered. The next thing I did was swing open the shutters to let some proper light and air inside.

If my luck couldn't get any worse, it didn't look like I was in London anymore. It was sunny outside, not cloudy. There were trees and long grass humming with grasshoppers with a stream in the distance. The wind that blew was refreshingly cool and clean. It smelled of grass and earth, a mildly spicy scent mixed with the sharper smell of manure.

This was getting stranger and more concerning.

It was then that the door opened and I immediately jumped backwards. Two figures men stood at the door. For a moment we both stared before I realised I was naked. I rushed to cover myself and the two intruders were quick to avert their eyes. It was clear none of us were fast enough.

"Aegon, in the name of the sweet Mother Above, put some clothes on!"

I stopped, my mind taking a moment to process that name, those words.

 _Aegon? Game of Thrones Aegon?_ It was then it struck me, the revelation hitting me like a ton of bricks . . . or a speeding car. _Hot damn. I'm a Targaryen, aren't I?_ Or more specifically, Young Griff, for that was just what it looked like. His blue hair, those girly eyelashes, and the fact one of the older men also had blue hair. _Oh fuck me_.

Ok, that wasn't something I expected. I . . . something happened and I found myself in the body of a boy whose forefathers who could be called incestuous pompous twats and be completely correct in that insult. Whoever had the body before me didn't have any marks of inbreeding, but yet again, neither did the characters of whatever world he was thrown in. TV show or the books, this should be interesting. Hell, I could have been thrown into a fanfiction. I considered the latter the scariest.

Waking up in a completely different world and location, in a body that wasn't mine and with a million thoughts going through my mind, the first words that escaped my mouth were, "Oh."

Then I collapsed.

...

My eyes fluttered.

On their knees above me were the two men. It took a moment to focus and the world to become less of a blur. One was slim with a clean-shaven lined face. His hair was pulled back into a knot behind his head and he had grey eyes. The other man, likewise, was clean-shaven. Though like myself, his hair was dyed blue. Beneath I could see red roots and he had blue eyes. Pale-blue. I could now understand why Tyrion was unnerved in the books. There was something about them I couldn't help but avert my eyes to.

"H-hi," I said awkwardly, looking down and relieved they covered me in a blanket at the very least. At my awakening, the larger of the two men embraced me, his hold stronger than anything I'd experienced before. I struggled against it, fighting back a grimace. I never liked being touched, especially from a stranger. "Ugh . . . who are you?" I had an inkling, but it never hurt to get to get the name from the person themselves.

The man froze and backed away, his eyes staring at me. Once more, my own eyes averted. "You know." I shook my head shyly. "Griff . . . Jon. Jon Connington. I raised you since you were a child. Surely you remember. Are . . . are you saying you don't remember me?"

I simply shook my head once more. I knew _of_ him. Knowing him, however, was a different matter altogether. I knew that he was the exiled lord of Griffin's Roost. An exiled knight who was in love with Prince Rhaegar, as well as being guilty over what he saw as his failures during Robert's Rebellion. I knew little else of the man. It was strange knowing some of the characters secrets and the like, but not knowing much else beyond that point.

He turned to Haldon. "What happened to him? _What happened?_ " The words became louder and I pried myself from his grasp.

Haldon Halfmaester shrugged. "I don't know. I've never heard of a fever making one forget. Mayhaps he knocked his head? Tell me, lad. Do you remember anything? What do you remember before you woke up?"

I shrugged. I could remember the car, and everything before that point, well, bits of it anyway. So I got hit and found myself in Essos. It had to be. I didn't think I got to the point of the War of the Five Kings. Hopefully it wouldn't start any time soon. "Nothing really," I lied, trying to form words. How could I explain I came from another world so different from their own? To complete strangers nonetheless. Well, I knew them from the books . . . if only in part. "J-Jon . . . may I ask something? What year is it?"

"Year?" It was Haldon who answered. "The year is two-hundred-four-and-ninety, after Aegon's conquest of Westeros. Why do you ask, Griffin?"

Griffin? When I remembered I should be keeping my identity secret, well, the identity of the boy I somehow possessed. "Just . . . something that was on my mind. I think I need some rest. I don't feel well."

"A wise idea," the Halfmaester responded eagerly. "Have some rest and Septa Lemore will bring you some soup. I'm sure you're still recovering. It was a nasty fever you had. Make you have enough sleep and eat. Hopefully it'll all come back to you."

I was feeling hungry, but in no way was I tired. Far from it. The knowledge of being thrown into a world populated by zombies and dragons and ice elves wasn't going to allow me to have a good night's rest. If anything, I wanted to explore and learn about this world. If this was truly happening, if I was truly here, I needed to prepare. I couldn't afford to go in blind.

That's what I did. While Haldon and Jon Connington asked – fairly strictly – that I remain inside the small shack built on the side of the river, I didn't sleep. Instead I requested some books and surprised to learn that they were written in English, well, at least those in the common tongue. Which to be honest, I was most thankful for. One language dealt with at least.

I was midway through reading about the Seven Kingdoms when Septa Lemore walked in. She wore dull grey robes with a veil that covered her hair. Around her neck was a loose lace and on it dangled one of the crystals used by the faith. She was a fair looking woman. Her hair and eyes were dark while her skin was tanned from the sun. Something I noted quickly was that her eyes weren't purple, they were brown. There concluding it was unlike to be Ashara Dayne of Starfall.

"How are you, child?" she asked, her voice soothing. The septa took a seat beside me, patted down her garbs and looked down at the book I was reading. Her eyes skimmed through it. "The houses of the Crownlands." She hummed a sound and cupped my cheek. Her hands were warm, though the skin of her fingers were coarse. The stranger touching my face gave me the urge to shy away. I didn't know this woman as the actual Young Griff had. In many ways I pitied the people I found myself with. Unknown to them, the boy they had been taking care of was gone and in his place was another from somewhere else entirely. "I heard what happened. You forgot much after waking up. Tell me, do you know who I am?"

"Septa Lemore," was my slowly spoken answer. "I know of you. But I'm afraid to say I've forgotten much of the world around me." It was a strange feeling, like being in the middle of a dark room. I could see the shapes of what was around me but not the details. "You're a septa. A servant of the Faith of the Seven. You're here to teach me the faith and all its mysteries."

"Indeed." The smile was genuine. "I'm here to help you. Would you close your book and pray with me? Perhaps if the Seven are listening, they'll return what you've lost."

 _Would that get me out of here?_ I accepted the offer. Before I came to Westeros I was an atheist, bordering on agnostic. But seeing as I was stuck in a medieval society it wouldn't look good on me for showing that, especially as Young Griff could have been pious as most medieval people were. Damn, I knew next to nothing of the kid's personality. Well, I did know some things; Young Griff was naïve yet headstrong, he was entitled but worked with his hands, and adored candied ginger like Sansa with lemon cakes. I needed a bit more than that should they begin to notice something and then decide to perform an exorcism. Whether that'll work would be a matter of debate, though it wasn't something I was particularly eager for. "Only if you take the lead. I'm afraid after what happened, I forgot a lot of things, including much of the faith." She looked disheartened by that. "P-perhaps you'll care to teach me once more?"

Her eyes flickered, but she nodded. "If needs be. Come, child. I will teach you again." She lips curled into a friendly smile. "But only if you promise to continue being a good student?"

"I would never intend to displease." _Though I may find a way intentionally or unintentionally in the future_. If my estimates were correct, the War of the Five Kings would start within four to five years. In those few years I would need to learn about this world and all the skills that would be required. There was no way the world would allow me to just spend my time sailing up and down the Rhoyne. Those around me wouldn't allow me to experience peace and quiet where I could just be myself. Too many had vested interests in me now that I was Young Griff. I would be forced to play the game of thrones like everyone else.

 _God help me_.

* * *

A/N: So I decided to have a go at SI fanfiction. I know it's only the first chapter but I would like to know what you think and if you have any suggestions. I don't plan to write the character as a Gary Sue, I hear it's fairly common and easy in this genre and it's something I aim to avoid.


	2. Chapter 1: A New Life

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 1: A New Life**

* * *

I sat on the shore of the river, my knees pressed against my chest.

Two days it had been since I woke in another body. Two days. It wasn't a dream or anything despite my earlier beliefs. Both those days I had the same thoughts going through my mind.

Thought one: this can't be happening.

Thought two: this is happening.

Thought three: this is impossible.

Thought four: unlikely, but not impossible for it's happened. I just won the lottery of shitty luck.

Sure, I had much to worry about but so far. My problem currently was just coming to grips with finding myself in another world. Another dimension possibly. I was one of those people who believed in the concept of infinite universes full of infinite possibilities. With that logic, one of them would have to conform to GRRM's twisted ideas. Maybe it was just a way for my mind to find a way to rationalise what's happened for it is human nature to try and find reason. That's to why I hadn't had much sleep. But in the end it proved not only useless but frustrating, so I decided it wasn't worth the bother.

With no knowledge on how to return or even how I got here, I was stuck in a pseudo medieval world with dragons and magic and politicking only slightly less dangerous than an actual battlefield. If there was one thing I should be thankful for, it's that I hadn't been thrown into Warhammer 40k. If that was the case I doubt I'd survive the night, not the two I've done so far. A small victory I suppose.

I stared into the river, watching the sun's reflection on the water as it began to rise. It did look beautiful. If I was in the right state of mind I would sketch it out on paper. Such beauty wasn't something I was used to after spending my whole life in a bustling city . . . when I wasn't shut in my room. I won't have that life again. Already there was so many things I missed. Electricity and computers and a toilet that wasn't just a hole in the ground. Toilet paper as well. It was amazing how much was taken for granted until you didn't have it.

That wasn't to mention my parents. I wondered what they would be doing now. Would they know? Would they care? I doubted they knew. One of the conclusions I had was that I solely transferred my consciousness. If that was true, they would have no way of knowing I was gone. They'd just see my body and think me dead, not knowing I was stuck in the works of one of fictions most notorious serial killers.

Be as it may, I was stuck here regardless of my opinions on the matter.

Chewing the inside of my cheek in thought, I wondered about myself . . . about my new life. Between everyone, why did it have to be Young Griff? There were so many others I could have been. I could have been Joffrey and have been thrown head first into a royal court I had no training for, Robb Stark where I would find myself leading a rebellion, or even Jon Snow. That did bring up questions on _who_ I was. Aegon was Schrodinger's dragon. I didn't know if I was the legit Aegon Targaryen, or an imposter. I could be a Blackfyre if the theorists were correct, or simply a boy with the right eye and hair colour. There were even theories that Young Griff was the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. The possibilities were endless. Before I do anything else, that'll be my objective: finding out who I truly am.

"Young Griff," came a voice.

I didn't turn around and continued staring off, too deep in my own thoughts.

The orange-haired man repeated my false name, only louder. I rolled my eyes, turned around and the man grinned. In his hands were two practise swords. He wasn't a homely looking man, was Rolly not-yet-Duckfield, nor was he handsome. He was a tall and brawny with a shaggy beard that desperately needed a cut and a comb. He wasn't wearing armour, but instead a thin brown tunic that rustled in the cool breeze. Not that I could blame him, the air was hot and swarming with midges. "From the way you're brooding, I assume you've largely recovered by now," said the man with a grin. "Grab a sword and get ready to earn a few bruises. It'll take your mind off it."

I frowned. "I'm not brooding." My words didn't sound convincing even to myself.

He chuckled. "Are you sure, lad? It certainly looks like it. Nothing good has come from staring off into nothingness. Besides, you need the practise. You're behind on your lessons."

How could I forget Young Griff's lessons? At least it'll give me a fairly coherent picture of Volantene politics. Though to be frank, if Tyrion's words were anything to go by, Aegon was perhaps one of the better educated characters. Down to no small part of the company he kept around himself. At least I'll have that benefit compared to the others.

Chewing my lip, I decided it wasn't the worth the bother to argue. I was reluctant though. I didn't want any bruises as he so cheerfully put it. I just got this new body and didn't want to ruin it just yet. When I stood up, Rolly threw me the sword. I failed to catch and the blunted blade dropped to the ground, barely missing my foot. I just stared at it for a moment before rushing out an apology.

He chuckled. "Nothing to apologise for, lad. You were sick. I'm sure it'll take a while to get back to normal. Mayhaps you'll even remember something." He forced a smile, an uncomfortable one that gave me little reason to feel better.

"I don't think so," I replied. It was perhaps for the best that the lot of them thought I was suffering from amnesia. "I really can't remember all that much. Bits and pieces, but that's about it. I believe that martial pursuits are included in that list of things I need to relearn."

Rolly chuckled and shook his head. "Don't put yourself down, that's all you've been doing since you've woken up. It'll come back to you, I promise. Your mind may forget, but your muscles wont. Come, let's see how much you do remember. Pick up that sword."

I did so and weighed it in my hand. It was a hand-and-a-half sword. A bastard sword and heavier than I expected. Most likely it had been filled with lead in order to make beginners build up strength in their arms. The real deal would have been lighter no doubt. Not truly knowing what to do, my mind defaulted to the closest thing and I got into a stance I had seen others do. Rolly looked at me with confusion and it was clear I made a mistake.

My master-at-arm's chipped lips formed a smirk. "Not how you do it, lad. Close, but not good enough. Do as I do."

And I did. First, Rolly taught me how to properly stand. My legs were too close together and my sword had been held too low. Young Griff may have had years of experience in his young life, but I had none. The only experience I had was TV and watching HEMA videos online. I never practised HEMA though, so I was left following what they explained and showed without any first-hand experience.

 _I'm going to be covered in bruises before this is done, aren't I?_ "Please . . . could you teach me once more, like if I was first starting out?" I cringed at my own voice. _Bloody hell, I'll have to experience my balls drop_. Puberty was not something I was looking forward to experience again. "Just . . . until I get a hand of it—I'm sure it'll come back to me . . . in time. But until then . . ."

"I'm your master-at-arms. That is my duty to you. If that is what you desire, I'll give it to you, my prince."

 _Prince_ , I was never called that before. It was strange. I was only a child, but in a position of authority solely because of my birth however clouded by going incognito. It'll be something I'll have to get used to if I survived long enough. Standing as tall as I could, I tried not to look like the twelve year old I was in the body of. Twenty years I'd been alive on earth and now this . . . Well, at least this time Young Griff could be considered more mentally mature, though to be fair, that wouldn't be saying much. I'd never been the most mature person myself so that may not much of an improvement if at all. I almost laughed at the thought.

 _I'm so going to die_.

All morning we practised. Rolly taught me the basics of sword fighting and combat. To say it was hard was the understatement of the century. Muscle memory? Ha, I wish. Rolly overpowered me every time we sparred. My knowledge of medieval combat didn't help against an opponent who knew what he was doing. It didn't help that in my former life I'd never been the most athletic person, instead I focused my time on more intellectual pursuits like reading or researching random things – most of which would prove utter useless. What use was repairing a computer in a medieval setting? Here, the only thing I had on my side was a knowledge of the books and history. Throughout my life I loved learning about the past. At school, I learned about medicine and public health from the Stone Age to the Modern Age, even though I've forgotten some of it. Others was the Norman Invasion of England as well as the Weimar Republic and the rise of the Nazis. I knew they'll prove useful in various ways.

I was too immersed in my own thoughts when Duck hit me on the side. I yelped and fell backwards to the amusement of the older man. Grunting, I looked at the area of impact and grimaced. Rolly wasn't a gentle man and, without any padding, the area would surely bruise. It had been what he offered me and something I foolishly accepted. This was perhaps the first time I'd been struck, ever, being the cautious person I was. It most certainly won't be the last if the people around me had their way.

"You're dead," Haldon informed me on the deck of the boat. "If that was sharpened steel, you'd be missing your arm and be bleeding out on the ground."

"Thank you for that lovely picture," I shot back, staring at the blood from where my tunic was cut open. The sword may have been blunted, but it was still a thin piece of metal. "I just hope you have the skills to treat me if that was the case." I then remembered about Varys' little monologue at the end of Dance. I should know how to bind up my own wounds. _Honey, that's a decent antiseptic_ . . .

"Of course. Wouldn't want you to bleed to death now would we?"

...

A week or so passed before Griff considered me physically well enough to travel. None of the gang had taken the amnesia thing all that well, so they'd been busy debating on what to do. In the end it was agreed they'll continue and simply fill in the gaps of my education. I suppose I should be thankful that I wasn't at a later date. It was the year 294AC in the Westerosi calendar and I had much to learn while sailing up and down the Rhoyne on a rugged poleboat named the Shy Maid.

I continued with Aegon's studies which were very much standard for a prince of the royal blood. From Haldon I learned history, philosophy, law, maths, writing, reasoning, sciences and languages of the various dialects of Valyrian. My twenty-first century education was much more expansive than what Haldon taught and, as I was mentally an adult, I aced much of those things. I also was much more eager than Young Griff to get into arguments about things I was obviously correct about, so instead of learning we spent much of our time bickering. From Septa Lemore I was taught subjects like poetry, music and theology, which included a fair bit of astronomy. Westerosi etiquette was very important as well. I had to talk a certain way, move a certain way and follow various customs that seemed meaningless. I never considered myself a people person and socialising was more draining than the various marital pursuits I needed to practise with Rolly. The former blacksmith taught me to fight with various weapons like polearms, swords, maces and hammers, not to mention various drills to improve my strength. Lord Jon Connington, meanwhile, taught me how to lead, run a court and how to command – from whole campaigns to smaller groups of men. After all, a prince was expected to lead men into battle and therefore have a fair knowledge of military strategy and tactics. Even more so when they were expecting to be retaking Westeros in the name of House Targaryen. I was taught to strategies battles using a bunch of clay figures Haldon had and various wargames which were especially fun. In these scenarios I paid particular attention to logistics. As much as it was often went unheeded – and Joncon certainly didn't like it – I knew from history that the logistical side of things like feeding an army and making sure they were properly equipped was the most essential even if it didn't lend itself to be flashy or exciting. _After all,_ _for want of a horse the rider was lost, for want of a message the battle was lost, for want of a battle the kingdom was lost. All for the want of a horseshoe nail_.

Despite my earlier hesitance, I enjoyed these lessons besides some of it being completely redundant. Learning was something that always fascinated me. I adored history both from this world and the world I left behind, so I absorbed everything like a sponge. They were certainly aware of it and when Haldon commented that I changed, I simply blushed at the praise and said losing my memory had changed me. It wasn't all good though. It was very strange to hear them call me Young Griff, Griff or Griffin. Only inside deck did they call me Aegon. My former life . . . I wasn't him any more in body, only in mind. That was a problem I had. The only knowledge of this world I had came from the books. While they gave me something to work with, it wasn't enough. Nor did I have the knowledge Aegon had.

The best thing I had in my arsenal, something the other characters lacked, was foresight. I needed every advantage I could get, after all. I'd be playing against people like Littlefinger, Tywin Lannister and the rest of them. Varys, I was sure, was going to be on my side as long as I looked like his perfect little princeling. Tyrion, on the other hand, was a wildcard. When he and Young Griff met, Tyrion was little more than a depressed drunk who did rape that girl in the brothel and the other one in Illyrio's manse so perhaps he won't be in the best mind to help me. _Unless he's show Tyrion in which case everything should be hunky-dory_. I liked the Lannister, don't get me wrong, a fun character who was very witty and entertaining. But as a person, Tyrion was fucked up.

I quickly decided it would serve best to let everything play out like canon where I could predict everything going on and act accordingly. Should I decide to interfere, it would run the inevitable risk of them making decisions I hadn't predicted. Between all the different characters I could have become, Young Griff was perhaps one of the better ones. I was surrounded by a loyal party of talented individuals, thought dead and therefore below notice. It could have been worse and be thrown into the deep end where I would be forced to swim against a strong current from the very start.

It wasn't all running through fields of roses, however. The danger was that my knowledge of things to come was only good until a certain point, no small thanks to George not releasing Winds of Winter. Another problem was that I couldn't make gunpowder. I didn't even know how to create the compound, nor did I know the correct formula without risking it blowing up in my face should it even work at all. That wasn't even mentioning other things like proper quality metal and the other bits not worth mentioning. I tried though. I racked my brain but nothing came of it. Perhaps I'll figure a way but I doubted it. For that, they'll sadly be no Golden Company armed with cannons mounted on the backs of elephants. It would make a fanciful image, I imagine, but I hadn't the skills to pull it off.

While gunpowder was out the question, I could modernise the Golden Company into something that could change the face of warfare using the very tactics that changed Europe. My parents said I was nearly obsessive about history and that it would give me nothing of worth. I disagreed then and I really disagree now. If anything, it may just save my life.

...

The sun was beginning to rise as I sat on the deck of the Shy Maid, fingering the strings of the harp Griff had given me. It was a nice looking instrument, polished and oiled and decorated with elaborate patterns. Valyrian symbols, the exiled lord explained when we stopped at the town of Valysar. Not like I could read them, but they looked nice and that was good enough for me. I ran my fingers across the stings, the soft sound filling the air alongside the unconstrained chirping of grasshoppers, the songs of distant birds and the humming of crickets.

I couldn't play, not yet at least. In my past life I never played instruments, something I wanted but never did. My fingers seemed suited for it, slender and elegant as they were. Septa Lemore claimed I had the fingers of an artist and had offered me lessons on how to play. Something I eagerly accepted. _Rhaegar's fingers_ , my mind thought as they held the harp. I thought deep about that. Apparently, after my second coming and with Young Griff's change in attitude to becoming more solemn, Old Griff took that as meaning I was acting more like my possible father. Such a feat was worthy of gifts apparently.

Speaking of which, I really did need to find out about my true father. While I wasn't the kind of person to make plans on the fly, I had a grasp of long term planning and made a few of them should any of my considered outcomes come true. It mostly boiled down to either being a Blackfyre or the sun's son. Illyrio Mopatis would know and it was a good thing we were heading to him after much persuasion on my part. Pentos was still near half a continent away and we were chugging along upriver with all the speed a small single-mast poleboat could go. It was also a shame we took various stops that lasted anything from a single night to a few days, one time had been a whole week. Annoyingly, none of the others were in any haste for Pentos. If anything, it felt like they were purposely delaying it. Not something I liked, but I didn't complain. They could have simply refused. At least they were listening.

So while we made route, I acted a good little boy. The few times I was allowed to leave the safety of the Shy Maid I put my head down and tried to act like part of the crowd. Fat chance with a full head of blue hair. Many times both me and Old Griff stood out like sore thumbs nor did it help that I spoke none of the native tongues despite claiming Tyroshi heritage. I supposed it would have been amusing to outsiders as I stared at them dumbfounded while they spoke in a language that made them sound like they were bloody singing. It was perhaps because of these various linguistically problems that I was fast learning it. I could even say a few words of trade talk and Volantene. Children were fast learners compared to adults. When I asked the reasoning behind the stops, Septa Lemore's excuse was to resupply as well as money. Illyrio wasn't constantly supporting us and only sent supplies on occasion. So most of the time we were forced to make do on our own. I had never tied fishing nets before, nor did I do much work that was labour intensive. Essos had proven to be a good learning experience. If I had been Joffrey or any other noble with servants to do my bidding, I would have quickly fallen to sloth. This way I'd be constantly working.

I continued listening to the chorus of nature when the door opened and Septa Lemore stepped outside in her grey woollen garbs. She grinned at me, saying, "Good morning, Griff," as I lounged on a collection of crates I'd formed into a makeshift chair. It was customary for the older woman to take a bath in the river every morning before the rest woke. Originally she had been surprised when I first sat on deck reading a book by the candlelight. Aegon had never been a morning person and usually slept in. I was the opposite in that I woke up before everyone else. That day it also came to a shock to me when she stripped before climbing into the river. Since then, I made an effort to avoid looking. Being the quintessential British gentleman that I was, it felt improper.

We still talked though.

Away from the ears of Jon Connington, I learned more about her. She wasn't Ashara Dayne, I learned that much. Instead, she was a simple septa from Dorne who'd been thrown out the motherhouse when she was seduced by a travelling bard. She had been a septa since she was a young girl, taken in as a novice when she was six. The matron found out she'd lost her maidenhood and thus her purity. She was then expelled. A soiled septa was seen as wrong and corrupted and after a few weeks of harsh living, was taken in to teach me the mysteries of the faith. A part of me doubted she was telling me the whole story, but I didn't press any deeper.

Averting my eyes as the septa's robes pooled to the floor, Lemore climbed down the side of the boat. I flicked the page and she spoke up, her voice broken apart by the splashing of water. "May I ask what this book is about? Reading more about Westeros or is that the Seven-Pointed-Star I gave you to look at."

"Westeros, I'm afraid, lady septa," I chuckled. It would be wise to come up with a printing press and allow information to spread quickly. But like many things, I knew what they were, I just didn't know how to make them. I was sure I could figure it out, but until then I had to make do. "I'm looking at Daeron the Young Dragon."

"Him," the words came out almost as a growl.

"You don't approve?"

The Dornish septa splashed in the river. "He attacked my people, let his army loot and rape yet is heralded as a hero despite his many atrocities. The Young Dragon is loved by the smallfolk north the Red Mountains. Loved even more by the lords."

"But yours don't, I'm guessing. That is the way of war," I said softly. I would put it down to the lack of discipline in feudal armies, but raping and looting the population was usually encouraged by commanders to reward their men and spread terror to the population. One story I heard was a besieging army raping women before the walls of a city, goading the defenders to leave their fortifications. Maybe it was due to lack of acknowledgement on specific events, but Earth was brutal compared to Westeros.

"Aye. Ten thousand men he lost fighting the Dornish armies, and fifty thousand he lost trying to hold it. It seemed the Targaryens never realised dragons die in the deserts of Dorne."

I chuckled. Maybe I was biased, but I'd always been impressed with the stubbornness and independent mind-set of the Dornish. Even when faced with overwhelming odds they refused to submit. _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken indeed_. A part of me actually hoped I was Elia's son just so I wouldn't have to fight through a scorching desert. It would also give me a kingdom that would fight for me should I prove myself. "I'm just reading that part. Thank you for spoiling it."

The septa laughed at that and continued to bathe. From then on, it was mostly silence but occasionally it was broken up with small chatter about one thing or another.

The Rhoynish couple of Yandry and Ysilla arose shortly after septa Lemore did. Both were lithe with dark-olive skin and dark hair that was tied back. For clothes they wore baggy linen stained with sweat from working long days in the heat. They went about their business, getting the Shy Maid ready for continuing its journey northward. Yandry was a tall man, with gaunt features, a heavy hook nose and broad shoulders. He checked and pulled the lines while his shorter, old wife fed some wood to the brazier, stirring the coals and preparing breakfast.

"Got any more stories of the Rhoyne?" I asked, putting on a devilish smile.

I learned that both Yandry and Ysilla were solely doing it as a job. They weren't doing it for reasons like Old Griff or Haldon or Illyrio. Simple coin to transport the gang from one part of the Rhoyne to another. Both came from Dorne, orphans of the Greenblood who never forgot their Rhoynish heritage and came to Essos to get closer to the Mother Rhoyne. It was something they loved to brag about, claiming it was the greatest river in the world and that it had no peer. I had never seen any other river in this world so I took their word for it. The Shy Maid was a small transport boat transporting goods around the various towns and cities of the Rhoyne. Despite their passengers, they continued that business. This time, they were transporting Volantene spices and sweat beets and even sweeter wine. They were also in the employ of Illyrio which wasn't surprising.

"Depends," was the old woman's response, her accent thick and almost unintelligible. "Have you heard of the water wizards or the tales of the Rhoynar princes riding on the backs of turtles?"

"No I haven't," I said, sitting up with interest. "Please enlighten me."

The older woman chuckled and began to explain away the time before the Rhoyne was conquered by the ancient Valyrians, where the various principalities constantly fought against each other over trade. The royals of the cities rode on the backs of turtles, guiding the beasts – that were the size of ships – with magic, where they fought and hunted and rode for leisure. Some of the largest turtles were used similarly as boats, with groups of men riding atop the shells. The turtle-mounts smashed against each other and the princes duelled, as was tradition. Ceremony and tradition were very important for the Rhoynar.

 _That must have be quite the sight to see_ , I mused. I had seen many turtles in the Rhoyne. Large turtles and small turtles, those with domed shells and flat shells, those that were hard and those that were soft. Bonesnappers, brown turtles, green turtles and horned turtles. Those with ridges and those with whorls of gold, jade and cream. Using the charcoal from the brazier and some spare parchments I poached from Haldon, I drew a few. My hands were usually smudged, as was the sheet, but my drawing skills were improving. Enough to look slightly like a turtle if one squinted their eyes.

When Septa Lemore rose from the river, water beading down her naked form, I averted my eyes once more. It felt wrong of me to look. Septa Lemore, on the other hand, laughed. "Oh, Griff. No need to protect my dignity and be modest. The Mother and Father above made us all in their image. Our bodies are their work, crafted by their own hands. Covering your eyes could be seen as disrespectful." There was no chastisement in her voice, it was a gentle teasing.

"I find it disrespectful to look at a naked woman who I'm not close to . . . in a certain way," I said, spitting out the latest bit quickly. In many ways, the gang were still strangers, and while I'd seen the others bathe, it felt awkward looking at a naked woman. Especially when I was twelve years old. "I don't think it's proper."

Once more, she laughed and patted herself down with a linen cloth. Yandry looked to be watching her but quickly turned away whenever his wife so much as glanced in his direction. "We should bring glory to our bodies. Not hide them."

"Perhaps," I allowed, still not looking. "I would rather the only body I see being the one I married when I'm older."

"What happened to the boy you once were?" she asked, her voice now more curious than playful now. "That doesn't sound like the words of the boy we all know and love."

"He's gone," I said truthfully. I doubted they would believe me as processed by a demon or something. I certainly hope not. But I couldn't deny I was a different person that Young Griff had been. "I'm someone else now."

"That is true. I do miss the old you though," she said, pulling her clothes back on and allowing me to look into her direction once more. She looked sad. "You were such an energetic boy. Easy to laugh and always smiling. You had such a sweet smile."

"I hope I still have that smile," I grinned, though forcibly, feeling more awkward that anything, "And I do laugh."

"Less so. You're different. You spend less time with Duck and more time with books. More like your father in that regard."

"My father? Do you know him?"

"Only what Griff tells me, which is little, I'm afraid. I can't say I know him, only about him."

 _Like most people_. I leaned back, put the bookmark in place and close the thick tome. Then I went over to the side of the ship to have a morning piss.

"Making the mighty Rhoyne even mightier, I see," Rolly called out as he stepped onto deck, yawning and stretching his arms. He slept in the hold, nude except for small clothes more often than not. His body was covered with coarse hair and bulged with muscle.

I laughed, glancing back at him. "Making the river slightly deeper."

Ysilla scoffed. "She has no need of your piss, Young Griff. She is the deepest river in the world. The greatest in the world."

"Well, she's slightly deeper now and slightly greater." I emptied my bladder and pulled up my trousers, stretched my back and sighed. _The life of an exiled prince_ , I mused. _Pissing in lakes and sailing a boat_. Not what I expected my life would be. But compared to others, it was good enough.

I looked into the water at the face staring back at me. I had never been as diligent in dying my hair as Young Griff had been and it was beginning to show hints of the blond underneath. Silver hair, the blood of the dragon. But was I really one though? Inside the Shy Maid, they called me Aegon Targaryen, the blood of dragons, the descendent of Aegon the Conqueror and the boy who would return to Westeros and take back what is rightfully mine. But it wasn't mine. It was someone else's. I had merely been a college student, nothing more. Even the face looking back at me wasn't mine. It was a pretty face, with long eyelashes that made me look half a girl. I had stepped into the shoes of another, one I was trying desperately to fill. Would it be enough?

If it was any other story I was sucked into it, it would be no less clear who I was. I would be the obvious protagonist. Lost royal heir, conceived during a comet, with a tragic past – possibly. _I'm armed with all the tropes but this isn't most stories_. It wasn't Earth either, though I sometimes forgot it was. If I could be proud for a moment, while I may not know the world, I knew the characters. I knew their ambitions, I knew what they wanted. I knew their darkest secrets and wildest fantasies. I would use that that against them. Not a very honourable thing, sure, but I couldn't afford to be honourable. I had to walk the thin line of pragmatism else I stumble and fall never to rise again.

It didn't take long for both Old Griff and Haldon to rise. When I saw them, I pushed all my concerns to the deepest recesses of my mind. From there, my days upon the Shy Maid continued like normal. I liked order. I loved everything being structured and planned out. So it made sense for my days to be likewise. When I woke up early morning, I would take a bath in the water, cleaning off the dirt and sweat from my body before relaxing on the deck, usually reading in the candle light or practising with an instrument. Then it would be lessons with Haldon and Jon before being broken off by Ser Rolly and then Septa Lemore, where I would have free time to do what I wanted, which usually was spent reading on the deck until sunset. Then I slept and the cycle would continue again.

...

When everyone else retired to their cabins, Old Griff stood on watch as was his custom. I shared a quarters with him. It wasn't that large a room, about the size of a coffin and taken up by a single bed. Yes, that is correct, Young Griff still slept in same bed as his foster-father. Connington stood by a dim glow of the brazier, wrapped tightly in a wolfskin cloak and padded leather studded with iron disks. Not much protection, I mused. An accurate thrust could go past the studs and through the leather. Leather, especially supple leather, was shit armour in general. Gambeson was superior. I approached and warmed my hands above the fire. Old Griff kept the night watch to himself usually where he would return early morning where I would wake up early thanks to Jon's snoring.

"Feeling better?" he asked. Despite claiming the need of secrecy, Jon was less subtle than he should. While a sellsword, he still acted very much a lord and he didn't dye his hair as much as he should have, leaving long lines of red amongst the blue.

I fed some chips of wood into the fire. While the days were blisteringly hot, the night was chilly enough to see your own breath. It was refreshing though. I liked the cold. It gave me a feeling of home. "I could be better," was my response, tightening the travelling cloak around myself and forcing a grin. "But I could be much worse."

My father-figure nodded. "It could certainly be better, that's for sure."

"Still upset about what happened?"

"How can I not? You forgot. You forgot nearly everything. What I taught you, your lessons. Your experiences. You've changed as well. More subdued, more . . ."

"I know," I interjected. I hated what he was saying. If I could say I somehow processed this boy's body, I would. But I couldn't. In many ways I could understand the kid now and see why he was so agitated in the books, cooped up in the Shy Maid for all his life under the overprotective eyes of his group of mentors. I'm sure for many it would cause them to rip their hair out in frustration.

"Let me finish. You've changed much. Sometimes for the better, others for the worst."

"Worst?" I couldn't help but slightly smile at that.

He nodded. "Oh, Haldon praises you from dawn to dusk. How you're much more keen to learn then you'd been before. No more comments or sarcastic quips . . . at least not as much." I chuckled at that. "But with swords . . . you—"

"Were better?" While learning how to fight in martial pursuits had been fun, I just didn't have the same drive the younger boy had. That must have been obvious for my lack of skill. Oh, this body was faster and I had superior reaction time to my previous one, but that was about it. I was still learning the ropes, so I hoped there'd be marked improvement in the future. _Perhaps when I land in Westeros I can even defend myself_. "You're good teachers. I'm sure I'll be back to normal in no time."

"Probably," Jon Connington conceded. "Rolly though, bloody blacksmith's son. I don't consider him good enough to teach you. You know what you need to do and such a man of such birth . . . you should have Ser Barristan or Arthur Dayne. Not him."

There was a pause and the silence was close to deafening. "Am I really though?" I looked up at Griff and into his pale-blue eyes. "Am I really Aegon Targaryen?"

"Of course you are," he snapped in a way that promised no more discussion of the matter. He looked shocked like I committed heresy. "Who put that in your mind?"

I quickly averted my gaze. Staring into the fire hurt less than the older man's expression. "It was just . . . I don't know. It's my story, you know. Taken from Varys in the middle of the sack, taken from a—my mother to safety while Rhaenys remained. Then you come five years later to raise me with all this. Maybe it's because I can't remember anything . . . but, don't you think it sounds fairly contrived?"

I heard Old Griff let out a sound from his throat. "Don't say those things. You are true. I know it."

"How?" I asked, strength going into my voice. "How do you know I'm him? How do you? Do I look like my father? Is that it?"

With that, Jon Connington didn't reply, only turned away. His face was tight with pain and I felt a touch of sympathy. Before me was a man who had traded everything, his honour, his life in the Golden Company for me, or for the boy that was truly Young Griff. A boy he was now having doubts about when he'd once been so certain.

I took a deep breath and awkwardly glanced around. It had suddenly gotten a lot colder, but that was likely me. "I'm sorry. I'm going to my quarters." That earned no response and I simply went back to my bunk where I had trouble falling asleep.

* * *

A/N: I would just like to thank those who commented, favourited and followed this fic. Honestly I'm surprised by the support after one chapter and I can't thank you enough. I'm going to take on board your suggestions and see if I can implement them. So tell me what you think, what you like or what you think could be improved.

Comments:

Alvarus: I don't have any lemons nor pairings planning so far. Especially with Amerei Frey. So I doubt it.

Angry lil' elf: Thank you. You'll see his origin next chapter.

JustAnotherFan217: I'm glad you enjoyed it. May seem out of character for now, but remember this is asoiaf, so moral decay is very possible. As much as Aegon can shape the world he now resides, that very same world can shape him. But whether true or false, he'll need to take the throne through a river of blood regardless. I'll take what you say into account and I certainly have some of your suggestions already planned out.


	3. Chapter 2: At the Gates of Pentos

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 2: At the Gates of Pentos**

* * *

Ghoyan Drohe wasn't what I expected.

Yandry and Ysilla told me much of the old Rhoynish cities, or how they were supposed to have looked back in the day. While Ghoyan Drohe had never been a big player in the various rivalries between the Rhoynar, it was said to be very beautiful and prosperous before it's destruction. A city of canals and fountains, green and flowering. A most charming place where dancers would dance and singers would sing. Rising high would be massive domed buildings of colourful stone and polished bronze. Where those ancient princes would parade around on the shells of their massive turtles and the air would be thick and lively with spice. I wanted to go back before the Valyrian conquests and before the events of the books. I wanted to see these ancient civilisations in George's world: the Rhoynar, the Valyrians, even the Ghiscari at the time of their empire. It would have been interesting.

What appeared before me was a mess of ruins, not unlike the forgotten cities in the Americas that became lost to the jungle. The forests that had once been captivated had returned when the people left thanks to the Valyrian conquest of the Rhoyne. The histories claimed that when Prince Garin the Great failed in the Second Spice War, the Valyrian Legions marched north, sacking each city and taking half the population – sometimes more – back to Valyria. This reduction of the population didn't do well and those they enslaved were the young and healthy, the scribes, the craftsmen and the learned, the people who kept the city alive. Now, thousands of years later, the canals were choked full of reed and mud from where they had once been flowing. The pools and public baths was now stagnant water belonging to turtles and swarms of flies. The buildings left standing were little more than empty shells, while massive structures slowly sank into the mud. The rubble was now home to wildlife and invasive plants, while columns and towers that had once stood erect were now lopsided if they hadn't collapsed.

Despite all that, there were many who called this place home. They lived in little shacks built on the side of the river, among gnarled willows and tiny, carefully tended gardens. Amongst the ruined buildings were markets for traders and storage for the goods going up and down the Rhoyne. Clustered amongst them were lodges and taverns and brothels. It was a small town, mostly hidden amidst the ruins of an ancient city. Most of the people, Ysilla claimed, were the blood for the former inhabitants who looked to the future and the rebirth of their principalities.

While she spoke with hope, I couldn't see any when we docked. While the traders looked to be well-to-do like many of those living in the towns we stopped along the Rhoyne, the natives were anything but. They looked gaunt with large sunken-in-eyes and hollowed cheeks. Their frames were thin and bony and they busily worked, carrying crates in from the carriages to the waiting riverboats. _Trade is the lifeblood of Essos_.

Since arriving, we didn't really leave the Shy Maid all that much. The exiled lord Connington explained that we needed to wait for Magister Illyrio to bring forth transportation to take us to Pentos. I personally saw no point when we could simply ride, but I wasn't complaining. The ruins of Ghoyan Drohe were really something and when given the opportunity, I would eagerly take my leave and explore. Under adult supervision of course. Old Griff didn't really want me to leave the boat, but Septa Lemore vouched for me, saying I was a growing boy and that should be allowed to stretch my legs. So it was usually her or Rolly chaperoning me around everywhere.

Like today.

I, for one, was excited. I sprang off the Shy Maid and turned to where Rolly walked in a training doublet and two sparring swords. We were going training within the ruins. I had begged Griff numerous times to allow me to, so I could study the ruins close up and see what secrets they held within. In many ways I was too curious for my own good, but before me was an entire world to explore and should I be forced to remain on the boat in the overprotective care of Joncon, I would start to tear my hair out. I liked the man, I truly did, but god he could be get annoying.

"Ready for a few more bruises?" the ginger-haired man asked, jostling his shoulder wherever the sack began to slide off.

"Soon enough I wouldn't be anything but a bruise," was my dry reply. Rolly laughed and playfully punched my arm. I grinned, feeling sweat already begin to bead on my forehead. It was a hot day and swarming with flies. It was made all the hotter with my sparring gear: a stained padded aketon and the cervelliere that covered my head didn't leave my body much to breathe. My high-heeled riding boots would soon be filled with sweat and my padded trousers will be sticky and itching. I feared what wearing proper plate would be like in this weather and I was lucky enough that Jon informed me it wouldn't be needed. He kept mail in the hold, either for practise or in the chance of a pirate attack.

We headed inward, away from the river and toward the massive domed building with walls leaning sideways. The various turrets reminded me of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, though the ones before me had half collapsed and served as the residence to hundreds of seagulls. The walls were collapsed and slick with damp moss. The air was hot and moist, but the shade was well worth it. Clambering over a collapsed pillar, we made our way into what would have once been an audience chamber. It was a circular space with a massive dome sprinkled with holes that let in cones of light, revealing thousands of little dust moats swirling in the air. From the various faint colours, it was clear the dome had once been painted when there was still life.

"Beautiful." I had always found an interest in architecture and the ancient kind especially. It was just interesting to imagine what such monuments looked like when they were in their prime. Glancing around and recalling what Ysilla told me, it seemed that this was once a temple. A holy building for the Mother Rhoyne and the Old Men of the River. The turtles that resided in the pools were considered holy and somewhere there would have once been a chamber that held the eggs of the Old Men. If one killed a hatchling, it would be treated as deicide and therefore be worthy of execution. Not just any execution mind you. Oh no. The Rhoynar were like the ancient Persians in that those who killed their precious turtles were in turn killed by scaphism. _No one would be suffering that anymore_ , I saw. There wasn't any turtles, only rubble and dirt and weeds that poked up from the cracks in the mosaic floor.

"I can't believe you've picked this place," Rolly grumbled, glancing around, making sure there were no crocodiles that were said to inhabit the place. I rolled by eyes as he looked for dangers. While I'd been told of various predators who called Ghoyan Drohe home, including but not limited to river wolves, wild dogs, snapping turtles and many toxic snakes and lizards. Nothing else was considered much of a threat. At least this near 'civilisation.' I knew we were safe though. Most animals shied away from humans unless threatened.

"It looks nice," I said. In a strange way it did have a beauty, at least from a distance. "This way I'm away from Griff and the others. I need some space, you know." I did like my space and have moments alone. A shame that the Shy Maid didn't allow it.

"I get that feeling," Rolly threw the bag on the floor and I watched the equipment pool out with a loud clamber. I grimaced at the sound and looked up at him. "Griff's not much of a people person."

"Understatement of the century. Though, could we not practise at the moment? I would very much like to draw some of this. Can we practise after? I'll be too tired to do this otherwise and I want something to remember this place." A camera was out the question, but I could still draw it. I wasn't the best with charcoal, but seeing as that was the only materials I had at the moment, I was making it work.

With a sigh, Rolly reluctantly allowed it. Grinning childishly, I stripped out of the padded jacket so I was only in a thin tunic already sticking to my body. I had carried some of my drawing supplies with me. Pulling out a pile of parchments, I began sketching. The ginger-haired man, meanwhile, was watching me behind my back. It wasn't the first time he'd done that and not the only one. Septa Lemore regularly watched me as well. "You have a gift, you know," the septa said one day after going through a pile of his work. Then my response was, "Yea, if I ever fail at being a conqueror, at least I'll have my art to fall back on."

...

I wiped the sweat off my face as me and Rolly stared at each other. It had always been hot in the Rhoyne, but I was now smothering under layers of padding. _If having dragon's blood giving me resistance to heat, it's not bloody working_.

I was too distracted with my thoughts that I missed the sword slamming into my shoulder. I fell backwards, just barely avoiding a piece of rubble. I grunted and attempted to sit up. If I'd been just an inch off, I would have hit my head and I'd likely forget everything once more.

"Pay attention," Rolly warned me, relaxing his stance for a moment. His tone was serious. I had quickly found that when it came to training, Rolly didn't act nearly as carefree. He was a teacher and expected his student to learn. "Don't hesitate. Not for a moment."

"I'm aware," I grunted and stood up, brushing the dust from myself. I hated being dirty, though I'm afraid that was the life I now had. The days of easy showers and tap water were long over. I held my shield before me and rested my sword just above my shoulder. It was one of the stances I'd been taught. Jon Connington was very specific when it came to doing it properly. "So, teach me swordsmanship."

Rolly shook his head, a little smirk forming in the corner of his lips. "I won't teach you anything of the sort. Swordsmanship, you see, is a tame sport they teach noble children. It is a dance of sorts, with all matter of forms and rules for both sides. I wasn't taught that, for I'm not highborn. Therefore I won't teach what they're taught." He pointed his sword to me, where even a lazy swing could disarm him. "I'm not going to teach you swordsmanship, Young Griff. I'm going to teach you how to fight. How to kill. After what happened, you still haven't regained your abilities. A part of me is still hopeful, but after this long and with such a loss of skill, I doubt you'll get it back now. Not anytime soon anyway. I'm going teach you to fight, kill quickly and giving as few openings as possible."

"Good to know," I replied, not thinking about anything else to say. It seemed to me that everyone in the gang were pretty comfortable with melodrama of some form or another. "How skilled was I before, if I may ask?"

"Decent enough," he allowed. "You showed lots of potential and had it in you for something great. Let's hope you continue to show promise. There have been skilled warriors that learned to fight when they were older then you."

"But most started younger," I grumbled. "Thank you for the pressure." I glanced at my surroundings, forming a picture of the training ground in my mind before turning back to him. "Then teach me. Teach me how to kill."

Rolly nodded. "First things first. The most important thing about fighting is distance and footwork, as you should know. I know Old Griff and myself have taught you the basics. I see you have trouble with the range of your sword."

That must have been clear. I was shorter than Rolly who was both stronger and had greater reach. Being a child yet to experience the joys of puberty, I was still fairly short. My body was slender and yet to properly gain muscle. Weighing the sword in my hand, I felt comfortable with my weapon. It was a hand-and-a-half sword, not a longsword and fairly long for someone of my size. But I'd grown accustomed to it.

Rolly stood before me. He was a tall and brawny, armoured in thick padding, a chainmail hauberk and padded trousers. There was no way I could fight against him in strength and endurance. It did seem I was more agile than him though, but the size of the Shy Maid made testing that nearly impossible.

Giving a nod, the match started.

I didn't move, my feet rooted in the ground. It felt more naturally to me to let my opponents go first and I fight defensively, only pressing forward when I saw an opportunity to strike. In my various bouts with both Jon Connington and Rolly, that was how I fought best. Not Young Griff though, that kid went all out desiring a quick victory. I was more cautious.

As expected, Rolly lunged forth, grunting as he did so. I met his sword with my shield, a surge of pain rippling through my arm. Suppressing a yelp of pain, I stepped back. Rolly got out of range before I could counterattack. The man had the bloody strength of a blacksmith and if he'd an axe or hammer, I could swear he'll easily break my arm.

Again and again Rolly lunged forward, me not making a move if I could help it. In the heat and weighed down by his armour, it was clear my sparring opponent was tiring much more quickly than myself. His strikes became slower, growing weaker, aiming lower. Grinning internally, I took my chance. The next time he came, I blocked his strike and pushed forward, thrusting my sword toward him. Duck was forced back. When he tried one last desperate move to turn it around, I tied up our swords and snaked a leg around his. Within that moment, I used his size against him and grappled Rolly to the floor. It was easier than I expected, but Rolly hadn't put up much of a struggle.

In the end, I was on top of him and we were both laughing.

"I wasn't expecting that, lad," he chuckled, as I climbed up and gave him a helping hand. "Seven Above." He spat on the ground and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "That was an improvement. What would you have done then?"

Learning against a stone pillar, my response was little more than a tired gasp, "Ask if you submit. If so, I help you up. If not, well, I thrust my blade into your neck."

I saw a flash across his face, when he laughed. "More ruthless than before, aren't you."

"In truth, I don't think I have the freedom to be honourable. As you said, I'm not as good as I was before. I need to be ruthless, don't you think?"

"Sure, sure," Rolly didn't seem to be paying attention as he stretched his back. "Less honourable though. I thought you quite liked honour."

"That must have been the old me. The new me is not one for honour, I confess. I prefer results." _While honour is the mark of a great man, so is a tombstone._

"Spoken like Griff."

 _Yes, Griff_. Didn't surprise me when I read his chapter. From the way he spoke, the way he thought, Joncon desired to act like Tywin Lannister, a man renowned for his ruthlessness. "As long as I'm getting better with the sword, eh?"

"Being good with the sword is one thing. But don't be too ruthless, lad. His lord of Lannister is ruthless. Maegor the Cruel was ruthless, as is Lord Stannis. None of them are or were ever loved. You need to be loved if you want the throne. You need the people to rise up for you. You may get some with fear alone, but you'll get more with honey."

I nodded. He knew about Westeros more than me . . . at least when it came to the smallfolk's opinions. He knew what the smallfolk wanted, what they desired in a leader. "If I'm like them, the people won't rise for me . . . will they? They'll have no reason to. If I'm feared, they're more likely to rise against me." Like Machiavelli said, I needed to be ruthless and strong enough for people not to rise against me, but I needed to be loved enough for them to have no reason to. Lord Tywin was feared, yes, but once he had gone everyone turned against his house like a pack of starving wolves. People feared him but they didn't love him. When he was gone, he had grown from the most feared man to the most ridiculed. While Lord Eddard died due to his honour, he was loved enough for people to still fight for him and his house after his death. _I need to find a good balance between the two_. One couldn't truly succeed with one and not the other.

...

It was a few days later when Illyrio's carriage arrived. At the sight of the column entering Ghoyan Drohe, I was both impressed and embarrassed. I was supposedly meant to be kept hidden but, from the baggage train that was sent, you wouldn't have thought it. It was clear to see that Illyrio Mopatis didn't do things in half measures.

The wheelhouse was massive. I had never seen a wheelhouse before but it was clear that they shouldn't be as massive as the monstrosity before me. It was so large it needed to be pulled by eight equally massive draft horses. The inside was full of plush pillows stuffed with goose down and the purple velvet drapes promised shade in the hot air. The servants, the ones with collars around their necks, told me that should I be wanting for anything, I shall receive. I didn't think I would be wanting anything though. Inside were wines of all colours and flavours, sweets and meats and pastries. I certainly wouldn't be hungry should I decide to ride in the carriage.

I refused, however, much to the surprise of my party and the people sent to retrieve me. The person in charge of the train was shocked and demanded my reasoning, as if my refusal was insulting . . . it probably was.

"Septa Lemore and Haldon can. Rolly and Griff, too, if they wish. I, however, will ride atop a horse," I explained. That was anything thing I needed to learn. Riding was important in this world and being on a boat didn't provide me with much in the way of learning opportunities. Besides, I always wanted to ride a horse.

"Are you sure?" Septa Lemore asked, stopping at the top of the steeps steps leading in. "It's cosy and I'm sure Illyrio has brought the candied gingers you like."

I put on my most charming smile – and Young Griff did have a sweet smile – before saying, "I'm sure they're lovely, lady septa. But I'm just not feeling it right now. I desire to ride a horse. Like many things, I'm afraid it's another thing I need to relearn. The ride to Pentos is long so I'm sure I'll get a bit of practise, and hopefully not embarrass any of you."

The septa laughed. "Then do. I'll just make sure the ginger is left alone. I know how you don't like people touching it." Lemore winked before heading inside.

"Are you sure, lad?" Older Griff asked, taking me to the side. "I mean, you should—"

"There are many things I should do, father," I interrupted. "Riding in a wheelhouse is not one of them. I may be . . . you know, but I will not put myself in luxury. It is my role to lead the people, to be the very best I can be. Riding in a vehicle of decadence won't do that." Then my voice softened. "I need to know how to ride. Will you teach me?"

"That's why I'm here." He smiled ever-so-slightly. Jon Connington wasn't a natural smiler, and it showed. But that made it all the more genuine when he did so.

So we rode towards Pentos and my fork-bearded backer. It was a long journey through the Velvet Hills and the vast plains situated in the region known as the Flatlands which was made up of vast estates similar to those of ancient Rome. Armies of workers tended those fields. Slavery was illegal in Pentos, supposedly, but I wagered they were slaves in all but name. It certainly looked like it with the various riders out on patrol, with bows and spears at the ready should one of these indentured "workers" decide to leave early.

Most of the days were spent learning what boys much younger than me could already do naturally. It was fortunate that I'd been given a splendid black mare with a sweet temper. She was gentle and I wouldn't be wrong to say I instantly felt attached to the magnificent creature. Under Jon's tutorage I gained the skill of horse-riding. Nothing complicated, of course. I could sit in the saddle and ride without falling over. On the third day I concluded it was thanks to the horse rather than myself. It was like the mare knew exactly what I wanted it to do and responded naturally to the most gentle of instructions. I couldn't be more thankful.

I didn't spend all days outside, however. I was ordered inside the carriage for the lessons with Haldon and Septa Lemore. It was comfier than the Shy Maid with the ride being so smooth that it was like floating atop a cloud, if that cloud was stuffed full of various snacks and treats which I found myself snacking on despite my earlier objections. We were also making good pace, which was helped that the Old Valyrian roads were as straight as a lance and wide enough for three carriages to pass abreast. It put the Roman roads to shame, but then again, the Romans didn't have access to magic nor dragons.

Eventually, as the sun was rising from the east, the walls of Pentos came into view.

I was riding atop horse I'd named "Shadowmare" for when it comes to names I'm very creative. The first thing of the first proper Free City I saw was the massive high walls and the square brick towers. Behind I could see buildings and just wondered how big the city inside would be. Haldon claimed that the city held more than a quarter of a million inhabitants, which was absolutely massive in the medieval period.

"So what is Pentos like?" I asked Jon who was riding alongside me. Compared to blistering heat of the Rhoyne, the day was cool and I was dressed in a thin tunic and trousers, not the clothes Illyrio had given me. My financier would have certainly wanted me looking my best and I supposed in a past life, Young Griff would have humoured him. But not me. I was unsure about meeting the Pentoshi Magister. He could be truthful with helping Rhaegar's son and heir, or he have tricked me and everyone else to put his son/kin/puppet on the throne. Either way, I was going to find the truth one way or another.

"It is a Free City," was Old Griff's response, sounding unbelievably bitter. He, too, was eager to see Illyrio, mostly because I planted the seeds of doubt of my own legitimacy in his mind. Not the best thing for the long run, but I shared the blame when I decided the press the issue. I knew Jon Connington and his attitude, but not the handsome Septa Lemore nor Haldon, or even Duck who I now saw as a close friend. The latter three could all be Illyrio's agents.

I nod, knowing he was unwilling to say any more of the subject. I did research the place from Haldon's books. Pentos had been a colony, one of Old Valyria's daughters. One that tried to return to the old ways of slavery but was denied by Braavos who turned Pentos into little more than a puppet state repeatedly throughout history, it's status depending on the whims of the ruling Sealord. With the current treaty in place, Pentos barely had much in the way of a fleet, only allowed twenty warships, and they couldn't hire sellswords nor make contact with the Free Companies. They were also forbidden much in the way of an army, therefore reliant on the Most Splendid Republic of Braavos for protection which came at a high cost. As a consequence, the Free City of Pentos formed close relations with Dothraki Khals and used them as a private army to attack their enemies. "Trust Pentoshi to find loopholes in any agreement," was a common saying around Essos.

Entering Pentos had been an experience all by itself. Going through the Sunrise gate, the streets were straight and lined with trees and beautiful buildings that looked like I stepped back in antiquity. The apartments were three to four stories high, made of bricks and with slanted ceramic roofs. Like many Free Cities, they held numerous different beliefs within the walls. One such was the Red God who currently had a congregation of their faithful parading through the streets, all in red cloaks and hoods. Each one carried a torch in hand, being led by one who chanted into the sky. That wasn't to mention the various other places of worship we came across.

I struggled to keep sense of all the sights. I was used to chaos. I was born in a capital city, so that was natural, but it was all strange and foreign nonetheless. Pentos was very metropolitan, with hundreds of peoples of different races and creeds and cultures. Some were as pale as milk, with furs of tigers and dresses of samite and linen and wool, some were tall and dark, others pale and others olive. While it was a Pentoshi custom for many to dye their hair like myself, theirs were much more outlandish. I saw people whose hair was oiled and formed into strange shapes, anything from unicorns to stuff that wouldn't look out of place in a contemporary art gallery. I saw tumblers and musicians and street actors riling up the crowds. There was even a magician who kept the mass in suspense while pickpockets took home easy coin. The bazaars – Septa Lemore claimed – had everything that existed in the world that could be sold. A part of me wanted to see what the world here had to offer.

It all made me feel like a tourist.

Eventually we reached Illyrio Mopatis' estate. It was a mighty thing. High brick walls lined with long spears like those of a phalanx surrounded the perimeter. Clearly no one, not even the greatest of fools, would dare try to climb over it. The wheelhouse stopped outside the iron gates of the manse, guarded by what could only be Unsullied. They looked different from what appeared in the show. They were shirtless, with metal caps with a long iron spike that I'm sure would kill someone should they decide to head-butt some poor sod. They held round shields and spears like those of a hoplite, but they also looked pudgy and fat. Not the kind of people you would expect for the best fighting force in Essos. But I supposed it came down to them being household guards with food being the only vice left to them so they indulged upon it.

 _Not to mention they lack the need to be on edge all the time_. I wasn't a fan of Unsullied to be honest. Oh, they may be the most disciplined and obedient soldiers, but they weren't practical. The expense to make and train them was just too expensive to waste them in fighting. Their phalanx formation would also make them unwieldly and tactically inflexible. _Just get me some peltasts and I can match Daenerys' Unsullied in battle_.

After Jon Connington and Haldon spoke a few words, we were ushered inside the grounds. There were no other words to describe it other than beautiful. The gardens were large and open with lemon trees and bright flowers, painted statues of beautiful youths and marvellous creatures. There were marble bathing pools with fountains and ponds home to brightly coloured fish. The building itself, Illyrio's residence, was gorgeous. I was enough to take my breath away and clearly not the home of a humble man.

It wasn't my financier who welcomed us, instead a willowy girl with pale-golden hair and blue eyes. She smiled at me like she knew me before. I returned the smile, and perhaps with a bit of a blush. She was certainly striking to behold and couldn't have looked much older than eighteen. I did try to ignore her thin lilac dress which left little to the imagination. While I was polite, Rolly didn't avert his eyes at all.

"Please, my lords, Magister Illyrio is very much expecting you, though this one should inform you that master Illyrio is currently in talks with his fellow magisters. My fellow servants will take your belongings. Master Griff, please would you follow me?" She was looking at me, eyes down and submissive.

After a quick glance at Old Griff, I accepted and awkwardly climbed off Shadowmare, before handing the reins with a stocky man whose eyes looked defeated. _A slave._ Illyrio did keep slaves. He was a merchant prince who dealt with many things: dragon bones, spices, silks and flesh. The girl – who called herself Serala – escorted me through the spacious halls. If I was impressed on the outside, it couldn't compare to the interior. There were inner courtyards and gardens, with marble bathing pools, fountains and mazes, columns green with ivy and vivid mosaics.

She opened the door to my apartments. I didn't have a single room, but a collection of them with servants to tend to my every need. In my private chambers were pale-brown marble floors, thick carpets from Myr that were among the softest things I've felt since entering Planetos, draws and chests, a balcony overlooking the bay and walls draped with colourful silk hangings that shimmered with every breath of air from outside. There were frescos and mosaic tiles of animals and attractive men and women coupling that put the Pompeii brothel scenes to shame.

"You are too generous," I said, turning to the pretty blonde. "Thank you." Remembering my courtesies from Lemore, I bowed my head politely.

She curtsied. "This one just showed you the way," she said with a melodious accent. "This is thanks to the generosity of Magister Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos."

"Then I should thank him, most certainly. But thank you as well for showing me all this." I smiled warmly. "If you may, sometime later, please show me around the grounds. While I'm sure I've been here before, the mind gets cloudy and I may need some help to jog my memory."

"O-of course, Aegon—Young Griff, I mean . . . apologise. I'll be most honoured to, Your Grace."

"You make me sound like a crowd." Her face went red with embarrassment. At first opportunity, she took her leave and closed the door behind her. _Apparently, I may have a past history with her_. I made a face, knowing it couldn't be anything sexual . . . God I hoped not. George did write some disgusting things with underage children after all. I looked around the room, amazed at the sight. Compared to the Shy Maid, the shack, or the small room I had in London, this room looked fit for a king. _A king I could possibly be_. Atop the dais was a large bed with translucent curtains and a goose-down mattress so soft I sank right into it. The sheets were silk, and layered atop them was a carpet of pillows.

There, staring up at the ceiling, I pondered Illyrio's motives.

I must had been thinking for a while for when Septa Lemore entered, the candles had dimmed. "Like your room?" she asked, smiling that brought forth the fairness of her features. She looked at me inquisitively and tilted her head. "Deep in thought are you, Aegon?"

"I sure am." I said, moving to the side and letting her take a seat beside me. Doing so made me feel like a child. Even more so when she pressed a hand into my wavy blue hair, stroking it lovingly. I didn't push her hand away, I just let her do it. "I'm just wondering, why would Illyrio do this for us . . . for me?"

"He has his reasons," she said softly.

"And what may they be?"

The lady Septa turned away, grimacing. Like Griff, she didn't seem a fan of Illyrio Mopatis all that much. Haldon and Rolly didn't seem to really care. "He's a Pentoshi merchant prince. I think enough is said."

"Money and influence," I muttered, looking down at my fidgeting legs. But why would he want money when he was richer than most of Westeros? What influence couldn't he get with coin? He had enough of it and flaunted it out repeatedly throughout the novels. He brought the Golden Company and bribed a Triach of Volantis for crying out loud. The man wasn't lacking for coin. "I need to meet with him and see for myself."

...

The sky had darkened when I stood in the vast garden, staring up at the painted statue, when Magister Illyrio returned to his manse.

It was a beautiful sculpture like those of ancient Greece and Rome. It was painted, like they originally were, and masterfully crafted to reflect the ideal male form. The figure stood in the middle of a shallow pool surrounded by six cherry trees forming a circle. The figure itself was of a boy, looking like an older version of myself, poised to duel with a bravo's blade in hand. It was real steel and shone in the sun. The boy was lithe and graceful, sixteen, with straight blond hair that brushed the marble shoulders.

 _Illyrio when he was younger_. It had to be. There was no other reason I could think of. _Should I have been older, it could have been my body it was based on_. Though my hair had a curl to it and my body was less built. If this was a projection of my future looks, it was making me vainer just looking at it.

"Beautiful work, isn't it," came a voice behind me. I turned around to see who could only be my benefactor. "Masterful work. Created by the reputed Pytho Malanon when I was just older than yourself. Yes, unlike now, I was a handsome young man, a reputed bravo and swordsman."

I looked over at Illyrio. He was worse when I could have ever expected. It was one thing to be told by words from a page, but another thing to experience it first-hand. He was horribly obese, with fat ruddy cheeks, narrow pig eyes, a fat white belly covered with coarse yellow hair and heavy breasts that put many women to shame. His teeth were crooked and yellow and there was an oiled forked beard that shone like gold. If one wasn't aware of Illyrio's past life, they would never assume the statue was him. "I heard you were poor, my lord, when this was taken."

"Aye, I was. Master Pytho paid me to model for him. A young warrior with that form caught his attention. He's a lover of beauty, that man. Boys and girls, but young men especially. When I got my fortune, I tracked him down and brought this off of him. Yes, a bit of myself. Brings back memories every time I see it."

 _Does looking at me bring back memories?_ I did see some similarities in the face. Mostly the jawline, the high-cheekbones and the straight nose. Granted, the marble looked more idealised so I wasn't certain. My lips were fuller than the statue who had fairly thin lips in a way Magister Illyrio didn't have, which kind of proved my point. I turned to Illyrio staring proudly at the marble figure, like he was looking back at the good days of his youth. There was a look in his eyes, those narrow eyes that didn't quite reveal his eye colour. "I assume you've heard what happened to me?"

"I received a raven from Haldon," he said, slumping his thick shoulders and sighed. He didn't look or sound happy. "Nothing to worry about, lad. You're here, you can still learn. You've got years before you're even ready. You'll remember what you lost, and if not, well, you'll learn once more. This here is nothing more than a minor bump. Yes, minor and nothing to worry about. I'm sure the Red God himself watches over you."

 _Oh, someone's watching me_. "You say. It was a startling experience to wake up and be called Young Griff, and then Aegon, the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms." I chuckled darkly. "A prince without a crown, with only a court made up of a soiled Septa, a maester with half a chain, a blacksmith apprentice to serve as my master-at-arms and an exiled lord." _The standard court for an exiled prince. A five person band for a fantasy hero_. I supposed that was what Aegon was, truly. _A fantasy written by George and inserted into the story. A deconstruction in the making._

"What you need to learn and take the throne."

"Perhaps. Though I do wonder one thing. Am I really him?"

That seemed to startle the magister. Illyrio turned to me from the statue. His mouth slacked. He did smell foul underneath all the heavy perfume he wore. In a few ways that could be symbolic. _He puts on the appearance of a jovial man who's always willing to help, when in fact he's a Machiavellian schemer. An evil Wyman Manderly, you could say_.

"What did you say?"

I turned to him, straightening my twelve year old body to as high as it could go, trying my best to look strong. But despite myself, the man did have a strong gaze that made me feel powerless. "Am I really him? Aegon Targaryen, son of Elia Martell and Prince Rhaegar. Tell me, magister. Tell me whether I'm truly who everyone says I am." I wondered if Young Griff ever doubted his own legitimacy. The kid most likely had been told his whole life. Why would he have reason to object?

"You are Aegon—"

"Aegon who? Aegon Targaryen, Blackfyre, Mopatis? Or am I just a boy with silver-hair and purple eyes? Jon Connington told me. Told me that he got me from you and Varys the Spymaster. That I was five when I was taken away by him, to be taught by him, to learn from him."

"That is correct. You were five when he took you."

"Answer the question. I'm not sure about the boy that left with him, but I'm not that boy. I may have forgotten, but my eyes have opened and they're clearer than before. So tell me, Illyrio Mopatis. Tell me who I really am."

The magister looked at me for a moment, then laughed a loud laugh. His belly and breasts rolled and he threw his head back. "Oh, you dragons. You are always so dramatic. Dragon's blood, might as well call it performer's blood." He laughed some more and slapped me hard enough on the shoulder to see me reeling. "Aegon, you are no imposter nor commoner. You are a dragon. A true dragon."

"No. Don't divert this." This was exactly what he was doing. "A dragon you say. What kind though? A mummer's dragon or a true dragon _?" Black dragon or a red dragon. A dragon is still dragon_. It didn't matter to me whether I was a Blackfyre of a Targaryen, though it would certainly matter to Jon and others. "Answer me now."

Then Illyrio's face tightened in anger. "You are a child. You won't understand, nor am I obligated to tell you."

"So I'm false, aren't I. Otherwise you'll tell me." I chuckled and shook my head. _Expected as much_. "So tell me now, magister, or Lord Connington will ask you himself. He wouldn't like being deceived. Tell me and I can convince him not to be violent."

It was more a bluff. I would expect Jon Connington to get enraged. It would certainly happen after losing his honour after being labelled a thief and being manipulated with raising a child who was claimed as his best friend's son, who may instead be the Targaryen's greatest enemy. If he didn't kill Illyrio on the spot, I'd be surprised. A part of me even wanted to see if it would happen.

The man stared at me for a moment where I knew he saw the anger. Illyrio glanced around the garden where only his Unsullied and servants were on duty and working, then he slumped his broad shoulders. "You ruin all this planning, boy. You ruin it all. You are a Blackfyre on your mother's side. Serra Blackfyre, the daughter of Daemon Blackfyre."

I looked at him dead in the eyes. It was clear he was expecting me to make a scene. He expected I'd shout platitudes like "How could you betray me?" If anything, I expected _him_ to say, "Aegon, I am your father."

Between all the reactions I could have made, I just let out a matter-of-factly, "Oh." I really didn't feel anything from the revelation. Absolutely nothing. It surprised me actually.

"Just oh?"

I shrugged.

Illyrio glanced around, looked surprised by my lack of reaction. "I think you'll want to know more. Come, follow me to my apartments."

I followed, keeping a fair distance behind to a massive bedchamber with a bed that looked the size of an entire room. Illyrio went to a heavy oak desk and pulled out a locket on a silver chain. "There she is, your mother."

I took the locket and opened it up. Inside was a beautiful woman with wavy pale-golden hair streaked with silver. Her eyes looked blue, but from my own they must have looked closer to purple when she was alive. "So it isn't Elia Martell, princess of Dorne. My mother's a Blackfyre then." I didn't know how to feel about that. I wasn't emotionally connected to either of my parents who weren't really my parents. I'd even prepped myself beforehand so I wouldn't cause a reaction and lose control.

"Aye. A beautiful creature," he took the locket from my hand almost tenderly and stared at the portrait. "I found her in a Lysene pillow house where I brought her home. I'm going to be honest with you, son. There was a lot of prestige in having the last Blackfyre."

"Last one? What happened to the others? Why was she in a pillow house?" I had always been curious about that. Though the way he was saying it made it less of a story of love, as he claimed in the books, and more of a story of procession.

"The War of the Ninepenny kings," Illyrio said, staring. "Tyrosh had always been the Blackfyre city, where the black dragons held their court and families. Daemon was supported there, not Maelys, so when the Monstrous killed his kinsman, Tyrosh closed their support and doors to him. In retribution, Maelys sacked it. Since Daemon the Black Dragon died in Westeros, Blackfyre support in the city wavered slowly, more so when Prince Valarr Targaryen married into a rival Tyroshi family. Tyrosh was sacked by Maelys and the Golden Company before Alequo Adarys was put in charge as a tyrant. At that point, any remaining support for the Blackfyres vanished. Serra was a child and sold into slavery. That was her story."

I took a deep breath and bit my lip, trying to think of a response. It was a fun little history lesson that would explain the fall of the Blackfyre Pretenders. "So you brought her and decided to sleep with her. What, as a prize?" My voice steadily grew despite myself.

"Initially," he allowed, leaning against the large desk. His cheeks were red. "I grew to love her, then we married. It closed the doors to the cousin of my first wife, the Prince of Pentos. I lost influence, but I didn't care. She was more than enough," he finished, stroking the locket down the side almost tenderly.

I looked down and when my 'father' tried to put a large hand on me, I backed away. "Then what happened? Why isn't she here now?" I knew the answer, but Illyrio wouldn't know I know. "What happened to my mother?"

"Dead. A Braavosi trading galley called the Treasure stopped in Pentos and brought with it the Grey Plague. The garrison killed the crew and burned the boat and all her contents. But that only allowed the rats to come ashore and they brought the plague with them. Two thousand died, my Serra among them. I still have her hands with me. I say you won't want to see them."

He was truthful. _But why would you keep her hands?_ I didn't feel sad, but I felt an ache in my belly. Was it wrong that I regretted searching for answers? That I'll rather live in ignorance? "So I'm a Blackfyre or half of one. So what now?"

"I expected you to know, Aegon. You probed me for answers and I gave you them."

"I did," I admit, averting his gaze. What do I do now? Do I confess to Jon Connington or do I continue the plan and deceive him? _Sometimes a sweet lie is better than a harsh truth_. But what if he found out later that I knew all along? Could I lie to a man who lost everything and lived for what was a lie? "It seemed so good to say it then, but now all I feel is confusion." I'm sure that if I didn't know all I did, it would have come as a shock. _Would Aegon have cried? Would he have shouted? Would he attack Illyrio or just not care? Would he sulk or go into shock at finding his whole life's a lie?_ "I was told I was a Targaryen, but find out I'm a Blackfyre."

"The true dragon."

"A false dragon." I looked up at him, my father, the man who planned the destruction of Westeros to place me on the throne. The man who helped Varys destroy the Targaryens, to put another dynasty in charge only to destroy that. I would have come in as a false saviour to stitch the ruins of bleeding Westeros. I would sit as king and the kingdom would bow to a lie. I could almost laugh. It was a brilliant idea, beautiful in a way. The plan would fail though. Daenerys Targaryen would ruin it because she has destiny and dragons on her side. "But what now, father? What will happen to me and the others?"

Illyrio's face tightened, his eyes staring. "The plan can still happen. You continue as Prince Aegon Targaryen. It will happen, where you will sit the throne, disguised as a red dragon. Your mother's dying wish was for you to sit the Iron Throne as is your birthright. The spawn of Daeron are falseborn, born outside the marriage bed by an adulterous queen. You are the rightful ruler of Westeros. Legitimised by King Aegon the Forth himself. Your forefather given the Conqueror's own sword."

"Aegon the Unworthy. It's in his very name. Not a good king by any means. He laid the foundation for war that's lasted multiple generations."

"Tis true, but for good reason. You are the rightful ruler of Westeros."

I laughed darkly. "Tell that to Robert Baratheon. I'm sure if we send an email, he would immediately realise he took the wrong throne and just hand it over to me, perhaps with an apology. 'Sure I may have killed Rhaegar by shattering his ribcage like pottery and destroying the children I called dragonspawn, but seeing as you ask nicely, I'll stand down, even if you are from a family my grandfather died against.' Yea, I'm sure that'll bloody well work."

"What is a—"

"Doesn't matter." _Don't mention anything from the modern world_. "If I decide to take the throne at all, I'll need to fight for it like my predecessors did." A Blackfyre, with an army standing behind my back. The Golden Company, that'll be my army. _One army to beat them all. One army to crush an empire_.

"That is why Varys is weakening them from within."

 _Not like the Spider needs much help with that_. Sooner or later the kingdoms would be engulfed in civil war. Joffrey would act like a twat and kill Eddard Stark and send most of the realm into a war. It would be further improved by Littlefinger adding fuel to the flames. With that, I needed to write much of what I knew down before I forget. Important events, times, things to do, as well as possible technology to give me an edge. I was already beginning to forget to my embarrassment. "Varys . . . what has he got to do with all this?"

"He was my friend. We're like brothers," Illyrio began his story.

He didn't leave anything out, saying how they worked together and that Varys was a thief, stealing items before graduating to information which they sold when they couldn't blackmail. That was how they grew rich. Varys wasn't a Blackfyre, nor did he have any Valyrian blood, but he was ideological. A fanatic. He wanted a king raised a certain way and acted with certain interests. A monarch taught with enlightenment values and given absolute authority. Ideas straight from the words of Voltaire. It was a deal between two parties. Serra and Illyrio would have their son sit the Iron Throne as king. Varys would have his dream monarch. Not to mention, Blackfyre supporters like the Golden Company who wanted a Blackfyre on the throne as well as others who had their own vested interests. I was to masquerade myself as a lost Targaryen to earn the support of the Martells and other Targaryen loyalist after the true Aegon had his face smashed. It benefitted multiple parties as long as the lie was considered truth. After all, power resides where people believed it resides. _Lies become truth and truth becomes a lie_. _History written by the winners_.

At the end, sitting on Illyrio's bed right beside him, I was both impressed and flabbergasted. It had been a long story. _All this organisation and planning, and I destroyed it_. There was humour in that from an outsider's point of view. A boy of barely twelve years old destroying the master plan of two of the greatest masterminds of the story. It's very fate balancing on my fingertips. If I wanted to destroy years of feverish plotting, I could.

But would I?

If there was one thing to say about Illyrio and Varys, it was that they knew how to change their tactics. They were flexible and that was a valuable talent, one I sorely lacked. From what I knew, their initial plan was for Khal Drogo to weaken the realm with his discount Mongol horde at the behest of dear uncle Viserys. They would somehow manage to cross the Narrow Sea amidst civil war and fuck everything up. After all hope is lost, I would come in swinging my sword and awe everyone with my sheer awesomeness.

But that didn't go to plan. Drogo died and Daenerys got dragons. Then the plan was that I go and marry her, unite our forces to take on Westeros with the dream team of made up of the Golden Company, Unsullied and dragons. The very same tactic I used in the game of thrones mod for Crusader Kings 2. A plan that worked every time.

Thinking, I fiddled with my hands.

"You need not say anything, you know," Illyrio said softly. "You can still do this. Pretend nothing ever was said between us here. Continue as Aegon Targaryen, son of Elia Martell and Rhaegar. It'll be easy and you'll be king, your children princes and princesses."

"But it has. I was lied to all my life. You lied to others. You wanted to lead others to die for a lie. I won't do that. That's not me." The suggestion was tempting though. I was not a person who lacked ambition.

"Then what will you do?"

I thought on that for a moment. There were many things I could do. I was the last Blackfyre, a true Blackfyre, for my parents had a matrilineal marriage for her name had more political weight behind it, as smeared as it was. _Black or red, a dragon is still a dragon_.

How could I break it to Jon Connington and the others?

I swallowed and looked at the Pentoshi cheesemonger. I was at the crossroads that would dictate my future. _Power resides where people think it resides_. If I continue the act – this time with knowledge – I would have Dorne and others. But it would be a lie to benefit an imposter. If the Dornish discovered the ruse, they would come after me with everything they had. In no way would they allow an imposter to piss on Elia and her child's name and memory. There was no way I was in control. People would press me to sit the Iron Throne regardless of what I try to do.

"I will do what I need to do, but not on the backs of two dead children. If I'm going to take the throne, I'll do so as a Blackfyre."

* * *

A/N: I know some of you like 'JustAnotherFan217' wanted Aegon wanted to be legit. I had considered it, but in the end I decided to go with the Blackfyre theory. I believe it would prove more interesting and give me more creative variety than Aegon being a legit exiled prince. It should also add more tension should he encounter the Targaryens.

Tell me what you think and if you believe me picking a black dragon was the right course of action.

Comments: I would like to thank everyone for the comments. I'm surprised by the amount I got in such a short time. I'm grateful you're enjoying the fic.

coldblue2015: I do plan on having magic in the story. Not sure I'll involve the fyreworms, but there will be Dragon binder in the hands of Euron. I'm unsure whether Aegon would survive blowing it.

JustAnotherFan217: Thank you for the comment. I certainly have plans to hatch some dragons. Who wouldn't?

Guest: I don't plan on ruining any character. While there are fics that either worship or bash her, I hope to keep her in character.

TMI Fairy: George did say that Bittersteel had no children despite being married to Calla Blackfyre. It would have been fun though. Candied ginger is a treat. Ginger that has been peeled, boiled and cooked in thick syrup and rolled in sugar to preserve it. In asoiaf, Illyrio brought Aegon a box of the stuff, so I wrote it his favourite food. The only reason he puts "mummer's dragon" was because of the Dany prophesy.

gsaint413: Thank you. I don't have plans that far ahead at the moment, though I do have plans for Jon.

Lyonel-G: Thank you for the long comment. I do think that a Blackfyre would have even less support than a Targaryen. They are seen as pretenders and had caused generations worth of war for Westeros, with many houses losing kin. Many lords see Robert as a good or decent king, though. But I do agree that Aegon would get more support regardless if Daenerys attacks Westeros with Unsullied, Dothraki and foreign hordes. The Golden Company, while made up of Westerosi, has a large proportion of Essosi and Summer Islanders in the ranks.


	4. Chapter 3: Dawn of the Dragon

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 3: Dawn of the Dragon**

* * *

To say that Jon Connington took the news badly was nothing short of an understatement.

He cursed, he screamed, he threatened to have Illyrio and Varys' heads. It required the lot of us to physically restrain him to ensure blood wasn't spilled. Illyrio – or at least his servants – had been wise enough to make sure we took food and salt, as was custom for guests. But in the midst of being told, the whole guest rights shtick seemed to evaporate in the griffin's rage. As soon as Illyrio mentioned he was my father and my mother was a Blackfyre, Connington pulled out his sword where he was immediately dogpiled by the household guard. While Jon was outnumbered four to one, the Unsullied had proven themselves to not be all that strong, so both me and Rolly had to get involved like the heroes we were. While I wasn't a fan of Illyrio Mopatis – even if I could respect the man – I didn't want him to die. It wasn't for any emotional reason or the fact he was my father in this world. The cheesemonger was simply too useful, nor did I want Joncon to get killed in such a meaningless way.

As a result, I earned a black eye for my troubles when Jon elbowed me in the face.

That was what stopped him. He paused, turned to me and I saw in his pale-blue eyes that he bore me no ill-judgement. Blackfyre or not, he raised me, he taught me everything. While Illyrio was Young Griff's blood, he didn't raise the boy. And I suppose in many ways, Aegon was Connington's son, or the closest thing. So when he hit me, his rage evaporated. He ceased his struggling and stared at me with shock while I held my face. It was enough for the others to properly restrain him. He still put up a token struggle, of course; Jon was a proud man, but he had lost his strength after hitting me. The exiled lord managed to calm down, but he didn't lose his anger, though he'd lost the urge to shed blood. When released, the exiled lord of Griffin's Roost stared daggers at Illyrio before storming to his chambers and slamming the door behind him.

His reaction was certainly the high point of the day. The others were surprised by the news, though none of them jumped the handle like dear Jon Connington. They weren't happy, of course, but their feelings were thrown to the side when Jon Connington's own were known. Haldon kept his face stoic, Rolly looked surprised while Lemore looked at me with pity. I knew that they would remain by my side regardless. My main concern had been Griff.

The next morning, after a long night of forming my arguments and a breakfast of boiled beans and porridge, I proceeded to Jon's chambers. He had locked himself inside and refused to open up. I knocked to no response and continued until he shouted at me, politely, to sod off. I refused and he must had decided that letting me talk to him would be the easiest. When I did enter, what appeared before me was nothing short of a broken man.

"Seven years I've been at your side," Jon said, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs parted and face in his hands. "Seven years I have taught and raised you. In those years you became less Rhaegar's son and more my own. I saw you as my own flesh and blood. When you . . . w-when you fell with the fever, I feared for you, I feared what would happen to you. You came back and now . . . this . . ."

I bit the inside of my cheek. Despite rehearsing all that I wanted to say, I found the words had left my mind. Jon Connington hadn't washed the dye out of his hair, while I had. He hadn't torn himself from the clothes he'd worn previously. His eyes were inflamed and there were stains running down his cheeks. He'd been crying, perhaps all night. "I-I'm sorry."

He looked up at me. "Sorry for what? You were fooled like me, before . . . but you were wise enough to see it. Whatever happened to you . . . it opened your eyes." He grimaced. "While I was a fool. I was blind."

I sighed and sat beside him. I never had to comfort someone before. I would avoid it if I could, but this time I couldn't. "You didn't know. You were . . . you can't blame yourself." _You were upset, a man with nothing but a troubled heart, then comes Varys offering you a chance to relieve your burden. A chance to atone for your failures._ "Illyrio and Varys . . . they took advantage of you."

"They did. I was a fool to let that happen to both you and myself."

A moment of silence passed between us.

Connington's face tightened, a flicker going across his eyes. "He may be your father . . . you can stay here and be a Blackfyre." He spoke those words with anger in his shaking voice. "His spawn. The son of a whore and a cheesemonger, or you can come with me. We can continue going around Essos like before. Griff and Young Griff. We can go to Lys. You always wanted that, or Volantis. Somewhere far away. We can see Braavos and Myr and Tyrosh. We can continue sailing the Rhoyne. Just like the good days."

He sounded desperate, his tone heart-breaking. "Jon. All those years you've raised me, looking after me. You were the closest thing I had to a father. Oh, Illyrio claims I am his son. Oh, I came from his seed, but you raised me. You taught me what I knew, you made me into the person I am now." A lie, but a kind lie. "In every way that matters, you are my father. I know that I'm not Rhaegar's son, but—"

My words were silenced when he embraced me, not unlike when I woke up from the fever. He was desperate to cling to his past life, one that had meaning. As much as I hated to do that, I needed to take advantage. I wasn't a nice person for doing so, I know, but sometimes horrible things needed to be done. I needed him with me. Say what you want, but Jon Connington was a lord, a skilled knight and a commander. He was a useful man.

"Help me," I said softly. "You raised me as a king, you raised me how a prince needs to be taught. You and Haldon, Septa Lemore and Rolly. You were once in the Golden Company. Perhaps you can have that life once more."

That was when Jon loosened his grip. Any warmth and sorrow left him all at once. He glared. "A life I lost for a lie. If not for guest rights and yourself, I would have slit Illyrio's neck, cut open his belly and see what tumbles out. I would go to the Red Keep and strangle the Spider's throat."

 _Or die in the attempt_. "I would too, if I remember all those years of being Aegon Targaryen." I had no emotional involvement in the lie. I'm sure the boy would have had a much greater reaction to everything. I don't think his reaction would be all that different from the exiled lord before me. "But if I'm a Blackfyre . . . that means the Golden Company is rightfully mine, maybe even the Iron Throne."

"You have no right to the Iron Throne," he growled, letting go and stepping back. He looked at me with fresh eyes, as if he wasn't seeing the same boy. He wasn't. "You are a Blackfyre. You have no right."

"Nor does Robert Baratheon." In truth, I found blood claims more a formality. They didn't matter at the end of the day. Force of arms was what forged the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and what held it together. _Fire and blood_. But even then, Robert had a claim due to his grandmother and would sit as king anyway should anything happen to House Targaryen. But instead of inheriting it, Robert got it by conquest when Rhaegar decided to fuck Westeros by fucking a betrothed girl which was the catalyst for a downward spiral that brought the end to House Targaryen's power. "What will you do now, my lord?"

He shrugged. "Robert . . . he doesn't deserve to sit the Iron Throne. He doesn't deserve to be king, he's a usurper and tyrant. But what can I do? I raised a boy I thought was my prince's son, a prince. But you're an imposter. An unknowing one, true, but an imposter nonetheless."

"I never asked to be Aegon Blackfyre." _Or Aegon Targaryen, or Young Griff. I didn't ask to be in Essos or this world._ "Nor did I ask to be Illyrio's son or that of his wife." Once more there was another tense silence. It was among the most awkward moment I'd ever had the misfortune to be in. "I never asked for this but we are here now. If you desire, you can leave all this. You can wander Essos and live in guilt for your failures. Or you can stand with me just as you did before. I may be a Blackfyre, I may have unknowingly deceived you and been deceived in turn. But it's the Baratheons who are the enemy. The true enemy, not I. The stags were the ones who pulled down the Targaryens and sent them running. It was Robert who slayed Prince Rhaegar on the Trident. I know you may not see him in me, if you ever did. I won't ask for any oaths of loyalty for I deserve none, but if you stand with me, you can avenge your prince when the time comes. You can avenge your failures at the Battle of the Bells. You can get the vengeance you crave. What do you say?"

With the most utter reluctance, Jon Connington, the exiled Lord of Griffin's Roost, looked into my eyes and agreed.

...

I sat with Haldon in my chambers, running my fingers along the silver strings of the harp. It was a beautiful sound it made. Soothing. Calm. I still couldn't play, but Illyrio promised he was going to find me a master to learn from. In truth, I wasn't that dedicated to perfecting it. Music was just something to pass the time.

As Haldon read though my notes, I recited the words to Scarborough Fair. The song was a favourite of mine when I was working. Why not continue my little tradition? In truth, while I could remember the tune, I couldn't remember so much the words. I made a point of writing the lyrics down when I could. I did that with many things so I could avoid losing any knowledge of the world I vanished from.

Much of what I wrote down were ideas and possible schematics for inventions that were anything from seed drills that would increase the efficiency of the vast estates outside Pentos, to notes on various tactical formations throughout earth's history like the ancient Macedonian phalanx and the Romans. In truth, I didn't know how to make the various inventions. I wasn't an engineer, nor did I ever have an interest in the subject, but I had a clue on how they worked. I just needed people with actual know-how to make them for me. I wouldn't be hard to find specialists. Essos was more advanced then Westeros and Illyrio didn't lack the coin to find experts in any given field.

Despite all I needed to do, I wasn't rushing myself. Rome wasn't built in a day, nor were her armies. Warfare was an ever evolving battle, each side trying to get an edge on the other. Strangely – or should I say fortunately – it seemed neither Essos nor Westeros got the memo. Of course, this came from the maesters who were fans of censorship and changing history to fit their narrative (if the theories were correct). But even so, the treatise I found were more primitive than anything, though accounts from Jon give me more an accurate picture. I would still need to experience battles myself to truly understand.

What I managed to learn was that Westerosi armies used three different types of soldiery in battle. Their armies were mostly formed of levies who provided the bulk of any given force. These men were farmers, lesser craftsmen and labourers, given the most basic of equipment and little in the way of training. They were raised and kept only for the length of a campaign before being disbanded. They were vulnerable to shock tactics, preferring to run rather than stand their ground when a glittering wedge of heavy cavalry charged towards them. The second kind of soldiery the Westerosi fielded were the semi-professionals. A step above levies, these men would put up more of a fight and made up the backbone of a lord's army. While the variety was broad, these could range from anything from professions like city watch and guardsmen. Also thrown into this category could be urban militia and guildsmen, sellswords and volunteers looking for coin and glory. Overall, these men were better equipped, better trained and more disciplined, where they'd be positioned to hold the line for the next group. Some would be mounted, but those on horses were mostly skirmishers, mounted bowmen and light scouting cavalry. The next and final group were the fully professional soldiers. The smallest group but also the most dangerous. These were the knights and men-at-arms, personal retainers and the nobility. These men had the best training, beginning so at a young age, and outfitted in the best armour money could buy. While some fought afoot, they were usually mounted and performed in what could be described as an armoured fist. Heavy horse, the lot of them, relying on cavalry charges to smash formations and enough of a danger to change the fate of battles. They'll be my greatest threat.

It all looked simple on paper . . . _too simple and too broad._

To fight them I needed a force designed to take on these threats. I would do so, making an army using the best military doctrines from Earth. I knew much of military history – it being a hobby of mine after all. But while I didn't have more advanced technology, I could use more advanced strategies. I would have to style the Golden Company after armies such as Imperial Rome and its latter successor: the Byzantines. That wasn't to mention others like ancient Macedonia, the Sassanid Empire, various Caliphates and the latter medieval units and tactics from groups like English Longbowmen, Genose Crossbowmen, French Knights, the Black Legion of Hungary, Swiss and Spanish Pikemen and, of course, the Mongols. Should I manage to succeed at that, I would have with me a military force far ahead of whatever Essos and Westeros were capable of. An army strong enough to take on the Seven Kingdoms.

 _But how do I implement such a force?_ That was the hard bit. Even if I get my hands on the Golden Company, which would be certain with Young Griff getting them in the books and with my Blackfyre heritage, but could I reorganise them? I had only been in this world for a few months so I should have at least four years. _Would that be enough time?_

While I had been sending a lot of my time planning to create an army that could – theoretically –curb-stomp everything it came across, it hadn't been the only thing I'd been doing.

While I had many ideas on what to be built, I started with the more basic. Oh, it didn't have any practical use or anything, it was just because it was easy and I wanted to do it. In many ways, I was one of those rich kids who had a doting father unable to say no. Out of boredom, and missing things like chess and checkers, I hired myself a skilled craftsman who made the pieces and board with a mixture of ivory and onyx. Nice looking pieces masterfully crafted in minute detail. It was fun to be playing that instead of cyverse and I'd been busy teaching Haldon and the others in my free time. Maybe I could even export them and make a little coin on the side.

Besides creating board games, I'd been busy with other things . . .

"It's an interesting idea," Haldon said, sitting at the desk with a bottle of lemon water beside him. He didn't really drink much, did Haldon Halfmaester. "The concept is intriguing. It should, if what you say happens, boast efficiency and the quantity of yields."

"I know," I said with a wide grin, running my fingers along as I finished the song. I jotted the last few notes down. "It should improve the ratio of crop yields with less need of workers." Haldon rose an eyebrow at me and I continued unabated, "Compared to this, slavery won't be as practical, will it? Expensive with guards and making sure they don't escape. One will have to pay for food and dwelling and the like. What if we replace slaves with these? Machines don't ask for lodging, food or rest? While the one-time cost will be greater, a seed drill such as this will pay for itself in the long run." It was an idea of mine going through the vast Pentoshi estates when learning to ride. Thousands upon thousands of slaves were needed to harvest those vast farms. While they used simple tools, they could make use of greater technology and improved crop rotation.

"Slavery is profitable, Aegon. That's why the Free Cities, the Dothraki and Ghiscari are rich. Richer than the lords of Westeros. Besides, this is all theory. We don't know whether it'll truly work and even if it does, many might not accept it."

"We don't know it'll work," I agreed, putting my harp to the side. "But we won't know until we find out, now can we? We can't throw the idea away just because someone somewhere fears it threatens the status quo." I scoffed. "Besides, the benefits are having less slaves to pay for and having just as much if not more food that can be sold. Less costs, more profits." Somewhat amusingly, I could take advantage of the slaveholder's own self-interest to help dismantle slave trade.

"I'm not doubting you with that, Aegon. Just how do you create these things? I suppose the funnel and that wheel acts as a mechanism that drops the seeds. I'm no expect when it comes to engineering, but I can see how this will benefit Pentos."

"I certainly hope it does."

What I planned to do was a sort of agricultural revolution to increase the food output of one of the largest food producers of Essos. In college, the British Agricultural Revolution was one of the things I did. It increased the population by around nine million and became less labour intensive which allowed people to move into cities. In turn, that fuelled the Industrial Revolution. Not only did I plan to lay the foundations for change, but also end the slave trade in a different way to Daenerys. While she may free the slaves and spread an abolitionist ideology throughout Essos, I was going to instead play the long game of simply making slavery less profitable and therefore less desirable. Why buy slaves to work the fields then machines do it better and with less the cost? It wouldn't end the slave trade, of course, but would aid in diminishing its importance to the Essosi economy.

So I hope.

I also had a few other projects still in the concept stages, which were little more than notes on a few parchments. But with these, it would be handled by others so they were getting increasingly more detailed by the day. One such idea was to make use of a major river that separated Pentoshi territory to that of Myr. It was a fast flowing river connecting the ocean to the lake of Myrth. I wondered if I could turn it into a place of industry. The river would serve an ideal location for lumber and watermills that use hydropower to increase production for flour and food. The regions of Amenos and Samal provided wood from their forests, not to mention the woods on the Myrish side. I can confidently say that Illyrio had taken interest in the concept. Unlike Westeros, money translated to political power so Illyrio and many other nobles were always looking for ways to get more. The main problem would be the Dothraki Khalasers. They didn't attack the cities themselves, but ravaged the countryside; razing towns and farmsteads to the ground while enslaving the population. Not even Pentoshi influence or gold could stop the smaller ones that numbered anything from a few hundred to a few thousand warriors. Braavosi treaties really helped hinder any solutions to fix the problem. I could now really understand Pentoshi desire to free themselves from the Titan's yolk.

Haldon scratched his chin and looked down at the pile of parchments before him. "You wanted my opinion and I will say it. I think these can work. Though I'm surprised you came up with these things yourself. It's not like you."

"I never had a knack for coming up with solutions to problems?" I gave him an impish smile when he shook his head. "Oh, what a shame. Well, I can say this Aegon Blackfyre is a marked improvement."

Haldon shook his head. "As I've said before, pride is unbecoming of you."

"Maybe." _But at least I have something to be proud of._ Even if all my ideas came from other people . . . "What other twelve year old has thought of these?"

"Not many, I confess. Sometimes . . . since coming back from your fever, I wondered if something happened. You may have forgotten much, but you know things as well. You also act different, sound different. Septa Lemore sometimes muses that you saw the Seven Above. She says you may have died in your fever only to be resurrected with their knowledge, like the Smith himself taught you."

I gave a pause and forced a chuckle. "I guess dying changed me. It would make sense for it to do so. Sometimes . . . I-I don't know. I see things in my dreams. Things that could come to be. I feel like I need to change them."

Haldon looked at me quizzically. "What kind of dreams?"

I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't want to go into it. Saying I have dragon dreams or prophetic equivalent could be a way to justify my actions to everyone. I may be called a Blackfyre, but I still carried the blood of House Targaryen and they had seers in their line. Blackfyres weren't excluded from processing dragon dreams. "One thing or another. I don't really understand them though. But I can feel . . ."

I must have looked like I didn't want to continue with the subject, because Haldon changed it for me. "I'm sure you can talk to Septa Lemore about it another time. You still have lessons you need to do. I've still a duty to teach you what you need to know."

I smiled with false relief. "I look forward to. When do we start?"

...

The sun was beginning to set as we rode through the Disputed Lands.

As the name suggested, it was a region fought over by four of the Free Cities. The Myrish to the north, Lysene to the south, Tyrosh to the west and occasionally mighty Volantis to the east. A rich region thanks to its extremely fertile soil and being home to vast latifundia. The whole region served as the breadbasket to all the surrounding cities.

Why wouldn't they fight over it? To control the Disputed Lands meant control over the cities from a position of power. If one could beat the others, they would hold a monopoly over food that supports the other cities population. In such a scenario, they could either cut it or hike up prices and force their rivals to spend precious coin importing grain. That would mean less coin to compete with more valuable commodities, not to mention easy access to grain and slaves that would be used for armies. But rarely did one city have control over the Disputed Lands, at least for long. The three daughters of Valyria couldn't keep an alliance for long before going at each other's throats. They switched alliances as easily as a person changed their clothes. Which meant a greater reliance on Westeros for staple crops the made up the trade balance between both continents on either side of the Narrow Sea.

Thanks to this perpetual conflict, sellsword companies were attracted to the Disputed Lands like flies to honey. One of whom I was visiting.

We found the Golden Company encircling the port town of Kylos, currently in the Myrish occupied territory of the Disputed Lands. It was the first time I had ever seen an army in real life and not for a moment did it fail to please my fairly high expectations.

I knew that the Golden Company numbered ten thousand men, not including camp followers and hangers-on. The best mercenary company in Essos, perhaps the world. It certainly looked it from where I stood. The camp they formed would have put them on par with the ancient romans: compact, orderly, defensible. A deep ditch had been dug around it, protected further with sharpened stakes. The tents stood in orderly rows, with broad avenues between them. Latrines had been dug near a river so the current would flush away the waste into the sea while further up were women cleaning and washing clothes. Outside the palisade walls was a makeshift pasture for horses and a few dozen elephants. Around the perimeter were tall battle standards of cloth-of-gold draping lazily atop lofty poles. Beneath them stood sellswords armed with spears and crossbows, watching every approach. They must have seen us before we saw them because a cavalry force was already heading towards us. Cataphracts, from the looks of it, with two standard-bearers in the ranks that numbered half a dozen.

"The commander is Ser Myles Toyne," I said, shifting awkwardly on the saddle, slowing the horses to a stop to meet them. "I've heard . . . but never had the fortune to know him." He was dead before the events of the books, I knew. A man Jon Connington respected when he still served the Golden Company. Well, he's still alive here and hopefully whatever fate that happened to him wouldn't happen this time. If he was respected by the Joncon, he was hopefully a skilled battle commander. Which was something I seriously needed.

"Aye. A good man. Among the best you can have," Connington said with more bitterness than he had ever shown me before. Not that I could blame him. He was polite, though I could see it in his eyes he wasn't pleased to be warding a Blackfyre. He was still expectedly sore.

"Let's hope, my lord."

"I'm no lord. Not anymore."

 _But you will, if you stand by my side_. "Of course." Without shade, the heat in the Disputed Lands were unbearable. I had dressed coolly this day: a tunic of black cotton, black trousers and high-heeled riding boots that kept my feet on the spurs. Septa Lemore had cut and neatened my hair, making it look more presentable. Running a hand through my curls, I said, "I am sick of this blue dye. We should wash it out."

"For your own protection," Septa Lemore said.

"Mockery more like. I look a fool and would they bend the knee to a fool?"

"They'll bend their knee to a Blackfyre." Jon said, averting his gaze away from me.

Despite myself, I felt a smirk tug at my lips. "You sound like they're one and the same."

"They were."

"And now?"

"Honest to the Seven, I don't know."

 _I'll take that as a compliment_. Eventually, the heavy cavalrymen reached us. They certainly looked intimidating. The horses themselves were decked head to toe in scale armour, with the riders enclosed in heavy chainmail with long conical helms. Even their faces were covered with mail. The sight of them was enough for a shiver to run down my spine. _What I wouldn't give to have an army of these . . ._

Only one didn't wear a helmet. He was an olive-skinned man, with a broad nose, black stubble on his gaunt cheeks and crooked teeth. His lips were split and he looked to be in his mid-thirties. "Three men, a boy and a woman. Looking to join the Golden Company are you?" His tone of jovial. "Or are you spies?" That caused a chuckle to come from the other cavalrymen.

 _I don't mean to join the Golden Company. I mean to lead it_. "If we were spies, we've proven ourselves failures at our task then. After all, no man can sneak past the Golden Company." Nothing wrong with a little flattery. Sellswords seemed to love that.

"Indeed. And this Tyroshi is?"

"Young Griff," Jon introduced, his voice expressionless. "I'm Griff. This is Septa Lemore, Haldon and Rolly."

"Rolly . . . oh. You were squire to Harry Strickland than buggered off for some reason. Why return to us?"

Rolly chuckled. "The pay's better and I didn't want to deal with Homeless Harry's feet." To that the cataphracts laughed. "I was to mentor this boy here in the art of swords."

The olive-skinned man nodded and looked at me, his smirk growing. "Good with the sword are you, lad?"

"Decent enough, I suppose. I'm no expert," I replied honestly. I did consider myself decent at it, at least compared to the people who taught me. "I hope that your company would teach me more."

"Mayhaps. If you seek to join, speak to Homeless Harry. He's the paymaster and deals with all the paperwork. Come, I'll take you to him."

We were escorted to the front gate where we needed to dismount our horses and proceed afoot. All the while, the serjeant – who was named Melio – gave a talk about the camp, about the various people in charge and what they were currently doing. The men who formed the best sellsword company were lounging away outside their tents. Dicing, drinking, swatting away flies. Some looks at us and a few watched me with eyes nothing short of unsettling. I ignored them.

"I'm afraid to say that Lord Harry is unavailable currently," Melio said. "There is a meeting within the command tent. Bloody town refuses to surrender so we're forced to remain here else we risk leaving a vulnerable flank. No doubt you're eager to bloody yourself, aye lad?"

"When do I start?" I grinned.

"Soon enough, no doubt you need to be drilled. We don't throw recruits into battle to die. You'll be trained first."

Melio led us to the captain-general's tent in the centre of the camp and slipped inside. The pavilion was surrounded by a ring of pikes topped with gilded skulls. The largest skull could only be Maelys the Monstrous, grotesque and malformed. Below it was a second, no larger than a child's fist. _Siamese twin_ , I wondered. _Or is the smaller one a parasite?_ If I remembered correctly, the condition had a name, one I couldn't remember. Not that it really mattered. Maelys was considered a kinslayer before he was even born, and now he was dead. The last Blackfyre ever to command the Golden Company. All the skulls were gilded, but unlike Maelys, all looked more similar, though some were cracked and splintered by the blows that had slain them. One even had filed and pointed teeth. It looked like he was smiling, which I found strange. _What reason do you have to smile? You're dead. You've failed your life's work_.

It was barely a second later when the tent flap opened and a man stepped out. He was massive, with a big belly and a bald head crisscrossed with old scars. His right ear looked like it had been bitten off in part by an angry dog, while the other was missing in its entirety. Nothing in my life prepared me for the sight. I felt myself squirm, and Septa Lemore put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

"Lad, this is Flowers. Franklyn Flowers. I don't think he's going to bite you," Connington introduced with all the warmth of a man who had his world collapse around him.

"Not like those bloody Dothraki," the man laughed, spitting out spittle before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not just Franklyn Flowers. It's ser now. Not only knighted me, but made me a captain after the other fell to an arrow." He grabbed Jon by the arm and pulled him into a tight though short-lived hug.

"Captain? Bloody hells, how did you achieve that? Merciful Mother, I was hoping that Myles wouldn't lower standards."

I glanced at the both of them. _Some blimmin déjà vu going on over here_.

"Things went differently since you left. When I popped my head out this tent, I almost shat myself. Bloody Jon Connington returned from the dead. With blue hair as well. Why is that? Impersonating Tyroshi, the both of you?" Flowers laughed and glanced at the others, his small eyes lingered on myself. "The rest of you as well. Haldon, you icy cunt, how has it been? Good to see you've return. We need some more scribes, though I hope you unsheathed that sword from your arse. Septa Lemore, my favourite Dornish girl, and you, Rolly. Going back to the smithy or Homeless Harry? So the lad would be . . ."

"My squire," Jon said. "Lad, this is Ser Franklyn Flowers. Captain of the Golden Company. Bastard of Cider Hall."

"Bloody Fossoway," the captain grimaced. "At least in part. The brown apple kind. The corrupted one. Enough of that. The rest of the officers aren't patient thanks to the siege. They'll want to see you lot now. Wasted enough time as it is."

I was surprised when I entered and saw all the commanders of the Golden Company sitting around the table. Only some stood up, greeting us with smiles and clasping our hands, some casually, others formally. Others remained seated and kept their distance, eyeing Jon Connington with nothing short of distrust. They still remembered him stealing from their war chest. Just like in the books, it was Ser Flowers who introduced them all. Some of the captains had names of Westerosi houses: two Strongs, three Peakes, a Mudd, a Mandrake, a Lothston, a pair of Coles; while others had bastard names like Snow, Stone, Waters, Sand, Hill and Rivers. Not all their names were genuine. In Essos, names didn't really carry the same weight and in the Free Companies one could call themselves what they wished. Regardless of their name, all wore more gold than I'd ever seen – maybe excluding Magister Illyrio. All kept their wealth upon their person: jewelled swords, inlaid armour, heavy torcs, fine silks dyed and painted, and golden arm rings that signified a year's service within the company. Many, I saw, were of Westerosi heritage. Some were like Joncon and joined the Company more recently, either before Robert's Rebellion or after. Most would have been born into the Company, though, the descendants of exiles. But there were others who were not of Westerosi heritage. Black Balaq was a white-haired Summer Islander who wore a feathered cloak of green and orange. While some called it beautiful, it did make me wonder how many parrots were slain to create such a piece. There was Gorys Edoryen, a Volantene who I knew was paymaster in the books, but was a captain here with Harry Strickland as paymaster. The Volantene had a leopard skin draped across one shoulder, and hair as red as blood, tumbling to his shoulders in oiled ringlets. The spymaster was a Lysene I knew for Lysono Marr. A man who looked so androgynous I initially confused him for a woman. Marr had lilac eyes and white-gold hair, full lips and porcelain skin. His fingernails were long and painted purple, while his earlobes dripped with pearls and amethysts. He was certainly an interesting looking gentleman, to say the least.

"So you've finally arrived," spoke the man introduced as Ser Myles Toyne, the captain-general of the Golden Company. He looked up from the table carpeted with the various maps of Essos. Myles Toyne wasn't a handsome man by any means. He had a face of a thug; with jug-like ears, a large nose that had been repeatedly broken and a crooked jaw. He was also perhaps the shortest officer in the tent. "I can say I've been waiting long enough, Jon. For both you and your ward."

I spoke up then, saying, "I assume you know of me." I glanced around, now commanding the tent's full attention.

"We know of you, lad," Myles said, taking a sip of his wine. He didn't sound happy. "Blackfyre hiding as a Targaryen to come back when the time was right. I see you've ruined all the plans. But seeing as you did, I must congratulate you on your wits."

"You tricked me," Jon growled, stepping forward. The officers put their hands to the handles of their blades, but Myles stopped them by raising his palm and meeting Jon's eyes with his own dark ones. "I was manipulated by you . . . by others. I was made my Varys to steal from the Company, for him . . . for this boy. I thought . . . I thought he was the true Aegon, Rhaegar's son. You knew he was a lie yet you betrayed me."

"I'm sorry, Jon. But it was needed. I hope you'll understand if you were my position."

"You deceived me, Myles. You—"

"You can talk about your petty acts later," interrupted the gruff voice of Black Balaq, rolling his black eyes. "You two fight like husband and wife. We work now. Argue later." He turned to me, studying me. "So this boy here is the last Blackfyre? Can't say I'm impressed. Who will fight for a boy who looks half a girl?"

"He's a child, nothing more," Harry Strickland grumbled, his blistered toes submerged in a footbath. "He's young, malleable. Seeing as the plan's no longer in action. Will we treat him as a proper Blackfyre? A member of the company?"

"If you're going to talk about me, don't talk through me," I growled, earning me a few looks. "I'm going to be the leader of this company. I'm a Blackfyre after all."

Myles Toyne chuckled. His thin lips curling into a smirk, he shook his head. "We'll have none of that here. You may have the blood of Daemon the Black Dragon in your veins, but don't give us orders. Here, you need to prove yourself. This isn't Westeros, this is the Golden Company. You don't have the right to command people with more experience just because your mother happens to be a Blackfyre. You are no Daemon, nor are you Bittersteel. Prove yourself to us and you'll be rewarded justly. But nothing more."

I grit my teeth.

Myles huffed and turned to my party. "I'm surprised. I was told he was good and humble and just. But I see he's just a petulant child. How disappointing."

I frowned despite myself. "I'm not petulant." _You just fucked over my plans. Thank you Myles fucking Toyne_. Though from the look Harry was giving me, it may still be the better alternative. I took a breath to steady myself. "I understand, my lord. I am inexperienced, though I hope to learn. That is why I'm here." Meritocracy was needed after all. I would have been hypocritical for me to rise solely because of my heritage. When it comes to an army, at least I'll have a foundation to work with instead of a completely clean slate.

"Somehow humbled you? Good. You will be tutored, boy, as needs be. When this war is done I'm going to speak with your father personally, see how this changes everything and the newest variant of the plan. In the meantime, you'll be placed alongside others who have just recently joined. Green boys they are. Mayhaps you'll be taught by myself on how to lead on top of that."

"It would be an honour," I bowed my head respectfully just as Septa Lemore taught me. One couldn't forget their courtesies.

"Indeed." Toyne turned from me to my foster-father, if he could be continued to be called that. "We can talk later, Jon. I'm sure you have much to say to me, just as I have much to say to you."

"Of course . . . captain-general," Griff hesitantly accepted the offer.

"But what of King Robert?" asked Ser Tristan Rivers, drumming his fingers against the table. He was a tall and brawny man, encased in dull grey plate and mail. He had a long face with a mane of dark-red hair and pale-green eyes. "He's hunting for those two Targaryen spawn. That boy who screamed and kicked the table when we refused to bend the knee, and that scrawny little thing who hid under said table. They're no threat going from city to city with only the clothes on their backs. We here have the one true king. A young king, yes, but one who stands with an army. How long would it take for His Grace to send an assassin? If Robert is a fool to not do so, what about Lord Tywin Lannister? There is no way he wants his grandchildren to face us. Like Bloodraven, he doesn't have an ounce of honour in his blood."

Myles Toyne nodded thoughtfully before turning to me. "Aegon Blackfyre can't be known to exist. Not yet. As you said, if the Baratheons knew . . . they'll send our prince a sharp blade as his final gift. A Blackfyre is currently much more a threat than any Targaryen. They're little more than beggars. We have an army."

That made me cautious. "So what will I do?"

"You'll be here until the new plans unfold. You will remain Young Griff, and Jon Connington can remain your father. While we know, the common soldiery won't. You will be father and son, joining the Golden Company. Tell a story of how Jon found a woman that made him lose his wits, then he got a child on her. She died so he raised the lad before returning." He gave a dismissive wave. "If not that, make something else up. Can you do that, Jon?"

I sneaked a glance at my tutor and found it a blank stare. I doubted there was any woman in the world Jon would lose his honour to. _Though a certain silver princeling . . ._ I still felt bad over that, but it was needed. If I waited any longer, it would just hurt him more. _Rip the plaster off quickly_ , as they said.

Old Griff crossed his arms. "And why would I agree with this deception?" His voice was a growl and he looked willing to kill the captain-general. "You manipulated me once with this muse, why should I do it again?"

"Because it's in your interests," Myles replied. "You're an exile like us. Targaryen loyalist you may be, but you need the coin, you need the motivation to remain standing. You submitting will only mark Robert Baratheon as the winner. He beat you once at the Battle of the Bells, yes, but there is still a way for you to avenge yourself, to avenge your prince. Do it not for the lad, not anymore. Don't do it for the dragon regardless of the colour of its scales. Do it for yourself."

"What if I refuse?"

"Then leave. We don't force people in the Company unless they agree. If you leave, you won't be missed. You'll be forgotten, remembered as an oath breaker, a thief who stole from his brothers in arms. Stay with us, griffin. Remain with us and regain what you lost. We can't offer you Rhaegar's son, but we can offer you vengeance and purpose. Instead of running from the ghosts of your past, stand with us and hold your head up high. Be the creature of your house."

Jon glanced at me and, for a moment, I saw his thoughts. He didn't want to serve a Blackfyre, but he wanted revenge. He needed a purpose after losing everything. Revenge and hate, experiences I didn't have to fuel my being. Joncon turned from me to Myles, his shoulders slacked and his next words were just above a whisper. "I'll do it. But not for you."

Myles nodded and clasped him on the shoulder like long lost friends. "I'm happy to hear it. One of these days you'll get what you lost. Maybe more. You've picked rightly, Jon. We have a war to fight after all. It may be a trade war, but we still kill and be killed. You to, Young Griff. Newest member of the Golden Company."

* * *

A/N: Honestly, I'm unsure what JonCon would do after hearing about Aegon. He would be devastated and furious, and like to murder Varys and Illyrio, but I don't think he'll just abandon Aegon, try to make the boy abandon the plot for the Iron Throne sure, but not leave him. As much as Jon loves Rhaegar, he would also have raised Aegon and they would formed a bond. Seven years is a long time and I believe YG went when he was five or near enough.

So tell me your thoughts about this chapter. And thank you for all those who followed, favourited and reviewed. I didn't expect this many if I'm being honest.

Comments:

ficreader2011: I will not rule out fake dragon dreams.

LoveLifeForever: I wouldn't say Aegon's a hypocrite for being an atheist and not desiring to look at naked women, or for not desiring carnal relations before a certain point. While the virtue originated from religion, it would also be both cultural and personal choice. Atheism is just the lack of belief in a deity, and doesn't really tell how one should live their life. With the parrot, Britain does have some of the highest levels of animal rights in the world, (more than seventy percent oppose fur trading for instance according to a poll) so SI-Aegon could just number among that group.

TMI Fairy: I agree with some of what you said and respectfully disagree with others. They would certainly use light cavalry for scouts. But from how the cataphracts described, numbering half a dozen alongside two standard-bearers, they're not equipped to scout anyway. They're more an escort to lead them inside. As a formation, the phalanx isn't primitive. The Macedonian phalanx - at the time of Philip and Alexander - was able to perform more complex manoeuvres than a simpler spear wall. Phalangites were professional soldiers and drilled to an extent that they had a marching speed other armies just couldn't match. Even then, phalangites only formed part of a combined army and would be supported by other units on the flanks. At the time of the Wars of the Diadochi, they had changed to deal with other phalanxes where it grew to not be as tactically flexible in comparison to the Roman maniple system which replaced it in Europe.


	5. Chapter 4: The Company

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 4: The Company**

* * *

Dawn came early. Too early.

As groggy as I was, I hastened to put on my aketon and fasten my bootstraps. Thanks to the relentless training within the Golden Company, I had aches everywhere. No part of me was free of bruises or strain. My bedding was so thin I might as well be sleeping on a bedding of pebbles for all the padding it offered. Around me, the rest of Serpent Squad were already up and ready, all waiting for the master-at-arms to inspect us. Inside the tent resided eight, all green as summer grass. Some of us were from Westeros, others Essos, some born inside the Company, others not. Our living accommodations were very spartan with just enough space for ourselves and our equipment, nothing else.

"Woke up last again," laughed Jon Waters, looming over me with a smile that made you want to smack him. He was larger than me, a head taller with broad shoulders like an ox and a stocky build. Brushing his shoulders was limp brown hair and his greasy round face was spotted with ulcers. He was tiring up the cords of his gambeson. "What is it? The third time?"

"Forth." I grunted and flexed my muscles. Even though the work was exhausting, I found it hard to sleep in the same tent as seven others. _As if Duck's snoring had been bad . . ._

He laughed; half a snort, half the sound of a strangled cat. "Be wary, Tyroshi, oh, be wary. One of these days you'll be caught and we'll be punished because of you." His voice darkened, "Should that happen, well, you'll see."

I looked up at him and smiled in a way that couldn't be more condescending. "I'm quaking in my boots." Through in truth, I was intimidated in part. Jon was built like a tank and hadn't done growing yet. It just made me self-conscious how smaller I was to everyone around me. _And I thought Aegon was meant to be tall_.

Before Jon could respond, Galaerys Drahar strode in with a swagger so customary for many of the officers. Breaking off whatever we were doing, we stood straight before our beds. My newest teacher was a tall man, with olive-skin, dark-blue eyes and straight black hair. He had lost an ear against a member of the Second Sons and had golden teeth from where his rotted away. Ser Myles Toyne told me he'd been born into a lower branch of a prominent Myrish family, claiming descent from Draghas Drahar who'd been slain by Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince. As was customary for many Essosi who'd little to inherit, he'd the choice of either becoming a merchant or a sellsword. He picked the latter.

"So," he spoke up, moving with the elegance of a cat, arms folded behind his back. His eyes were never restful, always moving and scanning the corners of the tent like something was about to leap out at him. A habit born from a lifetime as a sellsword. "Serpent Squad." I could hear the grimace in his heavily accented voice. In many ways he was your archetypal drill sergeant, just scarier because he was standing before me. "Not that impressive are you? The spawn of whatever place we dragged you from. The lowest of the low. Beggars, bastards and thieves, renegades and outcasts. _You!_ " He stopped before Mallor. "Where are you from, boy?"

Mallor swallowed. He was a slim dark-skinned youth, with black eyes and straight black hair. "Dorne, ser."

"I am no ser for I'm no Westerosi knight. You call me master. Got it, _boy_?"

"Yes, master," the Dornishboy rushed out.

"Answer the question."

"Dorne. Hellbolt, my father was a—"

"I don't give a monkey's arse about your life story. You are nothing more than vermin. Something to be trained and improved upon. The same for the lot of you vermin. You should be called the Rat Squad instead, because I see nothing else. Serpents are dangerous. They are silent predators, ready to strike when angered, hiding in the grass until some poor sod steps on them. What you lot are is nothing but. You're naught but a burden we have to drag around with us. Under the orders of the captain-general, I was given the duty to shape you as soldiers worthy of the Golden Company. You will work as one unit, to assist one another on the battlefield. If anyone here think you'll do this for personal glory, you are sadly mistaken. If you dare break ranks or flee, I'll find you and beat you to death myself and piss on your remains. Now recruits, assemble in the training yard."

We did, breaking out in a jog in the blistering heat of the Disputed Lands. Beneath the thick padding we all sweltered in the heat. Not as much as plate, but we were going to be equipped with that soon enough. We marched through the camp and outside the walls were the drilling grounds had been assigned. The members of Serpent Squad and others stood in formation, evenly space apart just as we'd been trained. Two by four we stood, with me at the front. Galaerys prowled forward, inspecting us for even the most minor fault, hitting us with a hard leather strap at anything less than perfection.

We learned quickly to fear him . . . at least some of us anyway. Jon Waters didn't fear our drill sergeant, instead hating him with every fibre of his being. This wasn't helped by the fact Drahar picked on Jon most because of it. If anything, Jon was motivated solely by constant anger and wanting to one-up our drillmaster. Before any of us even held a weapon, we were taught to march. We did so every morning where we ate a quick breakfast of lukewarm porridge after which we equipped ourselves and marched in close formation through the rugged terrain, down roads, through forests and rivers. While usually numbering twenty or so miles, it was usually varied (though lasting five hours at least). We walked and jogged, occasionally speeding up to a full run, all the while our master-at-arms would be riding on a gelding with a cane in hand to strike the back of anyone he disapproved of (which was everyone). The conditioning regime also included gymnastics and swimming should we be near a body of water.

That was not the only training we suffered from, oh no. Galaerys was old school as he made us endure what Leo claimed was, "Ghiscari legionary training." It was something Bittersteel learned of when a King of New Ghis decided to try and reform the Old Ghiscari Empire and set his sights upon the cities of Slaver's Bay. This was also how the Unsullied were trained as well, just so you know.

"Hold the stone straight in front!" he barked as the sun beat down and sapped us of our strength. The lack of wind only made it worse. We stood in formation, arms outstretched in front with a rock held aloft in our hands. It had been easy at first, but soon enough our shoulders were arching and my arms screamed for me to drop the weight. I wanted to tense my muscles, but the longer I held the rock the heavier it grew and soon enough my arms lowered. If they got too low, Drahar would smirk and lash us with his strap. He'd already given me more than my fair share of beatings already. My arms pulsed with aches and my muscles shuddered under the strain, yet I bit my lip and concentrated on the rock. All the while he'll constantly repeat, "You will not let it fall. You will welcome the pain. You will not let it fall."

Each day with the rocks was harder than the last. Not only were we still wearing off the pain from the previous day, the rocks grew larger and heavier. If we did have a rest, it was a minute long and I wagered it wasn't even that.

"Cease," he growled and we dropped the stones simultaneously. I bit back a sigh of relief and flexed my aching muscles. The Myrman watched us, his lips a thin line of disapproval that seemed to be the only emotion he was capable of. "In the future there will come a time when you will think you can't stand the pain and men's lives will depend on it. You could be holding a rope others are climbing, or walking forty miles in full kit. Are you listening?"

We nodded. As much as I hated to be lectured to, I was just pleased he was talking instead of ordering us to hold the stones once more.

"I have seen men walk themselves to death, falling onto the road with their legs still twitching, unable to lift them. I have seen men keep rank and move in formation, holding their guts in with one hand. They were buried with honour. There will be times when you want to simply sit down and give up. When your body tells you it is done and your soul is weak. That will not happen to you. Only cravens break. Instead, you will go on. You think you're finished now, do you, Hills? Are your arms hurting you? If I order you to raise that rock a hundred more times, you will do so. A dozen more if you let it fall a hand's width. This is a lesson. Practise that will save your life."

It was harsh, and the days grew harsher still. The only proper breaks we had was at dinner, but even that wasn't relief. When we ate with the rest of the Company, we sat at the back fitting our station as new blood. We forced down hard bread stuffed with sawdust and a bowl full of grey stew that looked like oil for how thick it was. I have to give the chiefs credit when credit was due. They did manage to create a food that encouraged men to fight to the death or risk taking another bite. I would have given it to the pigs if I wasn't so hungry and yearning for more.

When we weren't marching or holding stones to improve our bodies and discipline, we were taught to use various weapons. Our main weaponry were polearms like spears and pikes, bills and halberds. We were given and trained in swords as well, though they were backup weapons. Some of our training was unarmed, for we could always find ourselves without a weapon. Master Galaerys taught us the basics of thrust and slash against wooden poles that focused on our form and technique. When the Myrish commander believed we were ready, he paired us off with wicker shields and swords twice as heavy as the ones we'd use in battle.

Taking my sword, I glanced at the others and grinned. I hadn't fought against them before, but since coming to this land, I'd been taught by the Joncon and Rolly on how to use a sword and, with my knowledge of HEMA which I was only now beginning to use with my increased confidence, I knew I had the edge.

I couldn't be more wrong.

The clanging of steel was a horrid song that echoed in my bones as I darted back and forth against Damon. I parried high and counterattacked only for my opponent to dance out the way. I gritted my teeth, holding back a curse. Whenever I found an opening, it was quickly closed and I needed to withdraw. Sweat beaded my forehead as my blue-hair hung like a curtain before my eyes. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth and my heart was beating rapidly in my throat.

Damon stood before me, shield in front and sword ready to meet mine again. Unlike Jon who used his sword more like an axe or Mallor who was too hesitant in his fear of being hit, Damon knew how to spar. He was perhaps one of our best duellists and a strikingly handsome youth, just two years older than myself. With curly golden-hair and green-eyes, he was just as I imagined a Lannister to look. The fact he was a Hill made me certain he was one of their bastards from a lesser branch of House Lannister if he wasn't from one of their cadet houses.

I held my ground, my chest heaving as I paid attention to my opponent's face. Master Galaerys taught us to guard our emotions and responses for they could be used against us by the enemy predicting our next action. I learned quickly, with any unintended emotions only appearing in flashes thanks to Galaerys' whip and unexpected punches to my stomach. But when it came to Damon hiding emotions, he was perhaps the worst and therefore the easiest to predict. Didn't mean it was an easy fight though.

My golden-haired opponent approached slowly like a wary predator. Damon was taller than me, giving him greater reach. I needed to be careful, every movement I made was cautious less I suffer I misstep that'd be the death of me. I had some experience fighting Rolly and Jon Connington. They usually beat me, of course, but I wasn't inexperienced fighting against those with size advantage.

With a sudden burst of speed, Damon attacked. He swung, putting all his strength into an overhead blow. I rose my shield, stopping the sword in its tracks. Grunting, I felt the pain shoot through my arm. I aimed for his hand in retaliation only for Damon to twirl gracefully away, my sword simply whistling as it arced through the empty air. Not even close to what I aimed for.

"Too slow, Griff," he laughed, a smirk plastered his face while the others watching chuckled.

I lost precious space taking a few steps back, giving me much needed distance. Purple eyes fixed on my foe's green ones. We were equipped similarly, a wicker shield strapped to our arms, a bastard sword, an open helm and padded armour. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I got into another stance; sword above my shoulder and shield ready to defend. Trickles of sweat ran down my face as we circled each other. My form was tense while Damon's was more open and relaxed, a lightness in his steps and a laughter hanging on his lips.

He smiled, then he lunged.

I was ready. I deflected his cut with my sword and pushed forward. Damon, however, refused to budge and soon I was in the middle of his onslaught. Damon was fast, surprisingly so considering we'd both been training all day. Avoiding his shield bash, I met his blade with my own, absorbing all the force from the blow. Pain shot up my arm. Damon sidestepped and, when I slashed at his helm, Damon ducked. It was then I knew I was in trouble.

For overreaching myself, he rewarded me with an uppercut that threw me to my knees and gasping for breath. Blood ran down my chin from the split lip.

"Bending the knee for me already?" Damon jested, his laugh had a musical quality. "While I'm not your superior yet, I appreciate your—"

The rest of his words were swallowed by the dirt as his face slammed against the ground. I had kicked his legs from under him and the rest of Serpent Squad burst out laughing. I grinned with satisfaction at watching him splutter indignantly, spitting out bits of dirt from when he should have closed his mouth.

 _You'll be kneeling to me_. Getting back to my feet wasted me valuable seconds, however. Valuable seconds I didn't use to go straight for the kill. As much as he played around, Damon knew how to fight. As soon as he noticed my shadow hanging over him, Damon stopped playing in the dirt and slammed his foot against my groin.

I staggered, and cursed so colourfully that it could be mistaken for a rainbow. That was enough for Damon to return to his feet. I didn't collapse, thankfully. My groin did have protection, though I felt the impact. I barely dodged a slash from him and got enough distance away to recover. "Fine," I spat. "The hard way it is then."

"Cocky little bastard, aren't ya?" Damon growled, his usually carefree attitude suddenly gone. He approached me with careful steps before rushing into a counter attack.

"I could say the same about you," I replied just in time to slap his sword away before it reached my neck. You, _Damon, may be a lion after all_.

We reeled back when I failed to counterattacked and we once more circled each other, more than a sword's length away. Then, suddenly, the Westerman lunged forward, swinging his sword to unbalance my own. I caught his attack on my shield. I sidestepped and slashed at his exposed side. Damon twisted his body around, just parrying in time as he stepped back. He smirked, though I wasn't sure what about. So far, it seemed neither of us had an edge.

As Jon cursed me to finish him, I charged. Damon stumbled back at the sudden assault and looked about to slip on the ground. I smirked and, in that brief opportunity, I was on him. Sword raised above me to bring all the force down upon his head.

Damon did fall, though not by accident. He ducked my swing and, with a disarming blow, I was left without a weapon before he kneed me in the stomach. The air was knocked out of my lungs and the next thing I knew, I was on my back looking up with Damon's sword pressed against my neck. I gave a token struggle but with my sword a distance away and his foot was pressed against my shield, there was nothing I could do.

"Surrender, Griffin? Do you yield?"

I grimaced. With him looming over me with a victorious smirk, I planted my head against the dirt and submitted.

"Enough," Master Galaerys said with a voice as sharp as an obsidian blade. With a chuckle, Damon backed off and gave me a helping hand. Any harshness of his face vanished and he was once more had that winning smile plastered on his features. Holding back a bitter groan, I accepted and he lifted me to my feet. "Fine work, Damon. Much improvement with your stances. Young Griff," he turned to me, his lips a thin line, "some marked improvement. You need more practice. When the opportunity presents itself do not hold back. Rest, the both of you. Jon and Leo, you're up next. See that you do better than the blue griffin here."

Both me and Damon gave him a nod before moving onto the side-lines. While the victor was rewarded with praise, I was handed a waterskin by Mallor. "You did well," the Dornishboy said. "Shame you lost. I had money on you."

"How dare I lose," I chuckled darkly before pouring the water onto my face. "You did well as well against Qarro." That was a lie and Marro knew it. Qarro was the largest in our squad, an apprentice from Braavos who used a hammer as his preferred weapon. While slow, he had plenty of strength. It was just a wonder Mallor didn't have broken bones when he got hit. It had been the knock out that won the match.

The Dornishboy snorted from the back of his throat and glanced at the massive older boy who was sitting atop a makeshift chair of crates. Qarro's shaggy red-hair hung before his eyes as he watched the battle. He didn't speak much, did Qarro, though he bulged with muscle and stood a head larger than Jon Waters. "That's like saying a deer put up a fight against a lion. It may delay the inevitable, but can't stop it."

"Perhaps," I agreed, watching the battle. "But was it entertaining to watch?" I gave him a grin and the other boy laughed, earning us both a scathing look from our master-at-arms.

...

It was later the war between Myr and Tyrosh came to an end. The treaty had been signed in the fortified town of Kios where the delegates of both cities signed a treaty of everlasting friendship. Shallow words to say the least. In return for the Golden Company ceasing their employment with Tyrosh, the traditional borders between the two city states would be set once more. Myles Toyne hadn't been pleased with the truce; no sellsword company liked peace, but with news of a Lyseni ship raiding a Tyroshi trading galley full of high-valued slaves and with the Magisters of Lys refusing to pay compensation, no doubt a new war was brewing. As was the way of the Disputed Lands.

I laid on the bank of the river, a blade of wheat in my mouth and a straw hat covering my face. The silken grass brushed my sides as I laid with my arms crossed behind my head. It felt nice to lay down and relax after days of relentless and harsh training. Men were bathing in the river, practising or playing games like dice or cyvasse, chess or checkers. The new games were really taking off throughout the Golden Company, I've found. The best part was that I ruled supreme with both games I'd introduced from earth. I sucked at cyvasse though, for I was still learning how to play that.

"Relaxing are you, Griff?" asked Rickard with that easy smile of his. I lazily opened my eyes and tilted my hat to see him sitting shirtless beside me. Like his brother, Rickard was stocky with the same grey-eyes and black-hair, though his face was squarer. "Can't blame you, with all the extra lessons you have."

"The beauty of being a lordly lord's son," I muttered, not really caring. Even after my training with Galaerys, I was dragged off by Haldon and Septa Lemore for lessons, not to mention even more sparring with Rolly. By the time we'd finished, I was too exhausted for anything else.

The Darkstone boy snorted rudely. "An _exiled_ lord's son with a silver spoon in his mouth. That's what you are. Getting tutors for everything. All because you're a lordly lord's son and your father's close to the captain-general. All you are is an exile, just like the rest of us. Nothing more, nothing less."

 _I am more though. I'm a Blackfyre in hiding_. _Though one with blue hair instead of silver_.

While I still dyed my hair, everyone thought my mother was Lysene or someone with Valyrian blood, nothing more. Jon Connington had somehow been convinced after a night with Myles Toyne to go along with his plan so people now believed the knight got wooed by a woman and stole Golden Company chests to build a life with her. Many believed I was the result of that union, therefore giving me a less than favourable view within the Company. The sins of the father were the sins of the son, after all. Besides the ruse, me and Joncon, well, we haven't seen each other much since he returned to Toyne's side. Ser Jon Connington now spent his time performing duties like drilling and leading more seasoned men whenever he wasn't in Myles' shadow.

I chuckled. "Do you desire to read all the seven-pointed-star until you memorise it by heart? Do you want Haldon to preach about how beautiful and complex squares and triangles are?" I saw my companion's face turn sour and I smiled thinly. "Didn't think so." Both the Darkstone brothers very much preferred wrestling and fighting to learning, evident by the fact that both were illiterate despite being given basic tutoring as squires.

"Be a maester all you want, Griff. But I'm going to be a knight as my father was and his father before him. I want to be the best in the Company. I won't get that way with my nose in books like you. Besides, I like to be in the thick o' things."

"You do that then," I closed my eyes once more and took in the smell of earth and fresh grass, listening to the laughs and shouts of the men and the gentle splashing of the river. "They say that the scroll is a sword in the right hands."

"Listening to Homeless Harry have you?" He laughed. "Oh please, that man can't lead to save his life. That's why he's paymaster. Can't even walk without complaining about his blisters. I swear, I thanked the Seven Above I wasn't picked to be his squire. I'll get nightmares after touching those things he calls toes."

"He runs the Company well, none can deny that. He's no Myles, but he isn't bad at his job." It was Myles who rose Harry to the position. Which made sense seeing as Harry never wanted to be a knight, instead having it forced upon him by his father. In truth, Strickland wanted to be a merchant and had skills when it came to organisation and numbers. That was why l liked Myles Toyne. He was harsh, but only as harsh as he needed to be. He made Harry a paymaster after realising his talents and would always listen to his officers before making a decision himself. It did make me wonder how he died in canon, and what it would have been like if he was still in charge instead of Harry Strickland.

"Tis true," I heard some laughter in his voice.

Then, all of a sudden, I was soaked head to toe in water. I was on my feet in an instant. My hat was dripping and water had seeped through my tunic. My face was sodden and my blue hair draped over my eyes, dark dye running down my face.

"What the _actual fuck_?" I shouted eloquently.

Around me, everyone was laughing. None more than Symeon Lime who'd thrown his head back. "You laying down there with your eyes closed was just so tempting." The pipsqueak leaned forward, arms resting against his legs, mouth open in silent laughter.

As soon as I managed to take everything in, I looked at my squad who were with him, all grinning from ear to ear. I knew it was Symeon who'd done it. The shit-eating grin wasn't the look of an innocent man. "You muppet," I hissed before springing after him.

He dodged my leap, did a spin and everyone continued to laugh. Some even began placing bets as I chased him. "Fight. Fight! _Fight!_ " one person began, and soon everyone was shouting it. Symeon was an agile lad, but when he was forced to the edge of the riverbed, I charged and we both tumbled into the crystal clear waters. It began half a fight, half a game from there on. We wrestled, trying to force the other beneath the water. We kicked, punched, kneed and grappled, using all the skills we learned from training. It wasn't angry, after a point we were both grinning and laughing.

It wasn't just us two though. Leo and Rickard tried to get us out only to find themselves involved. Damon wasn't one to be ignored nor did Jon like the idea of a fight happening without being in the middle of it. At one point we even formed teams – three on three. Me, Damon and Jon fighting Leo, Rickard and Symeon. It had been fun, until Jon Connington stormed forward, his face as red as the griffin on his sigil and demanded we report to him.

"I will not tolerate fights," he scolded all of us outside the command tent. Connington had removed the dye from his hair, showing off the bright red strands that were beginning to grey. Instead of the clean-shaven Griff, he was growing a fiery beard. "This is the Golden Company, not a mindless rabble. Who do you think you are to start a fight?"

"It was a game," I defended meekly. I didn't know how thin the ice was between me and him. Oh, I could afford to be more confident if I was Rhaegar's son, or believed to be. But I don't have that luxury now. While Joncon didn't blame me for the lie, he was certainly not happy. "Not like any of us could have got hurt."

"You fought and not in the training yard. We've got a specific area if you want to spar each other." Then his eyes gazed upon me. His false son. "Not to mention you fighting in the river, one of you could have been seriously hurt."

I tried to hide it, but I frowned.

"It's just boys being boys," Blackheart said, smiling as he approached. He wore dull grey plate armour and over that he wore a golden tabard with a black winged heart. He slapped Jon casually on the shoulder. "A few scrapes and bruises, nothing more. This is how you create men, Jon. Training to fight, were you?" We nodded in unison. "Putting on a show for the men as well, it seemed. You may all take your leave. Except you, Griffin. I would like to speak with you."

That earned a few chuckles around me as they left, with Damon nodding a farewell. When I return to them, no doubt they'll want to know what this was about. I was led inside the command tent where a map of the Disputed Lands and the positions of settlements and sellsword companies signified by tiny flags.

"So, lad," Myles leaned on the table, grinning all the while. "How are you finding it being a normal soldier in the Company?"

"A sellsword. We are sellsword's here, not soldiers."

"A brotherhood of exiles. Exiles, soldiers, sellswords, men of fortune and adventure. Little difference between them if anything. Sellswords and soldiers aren't different. Warriors though . . . we're not like Ironborn, Westerosi knights or Dothraki screamers. We of the Company fight as a group who support each other in the battles ahead. That is one of the reasons you're trained the way you are. Do you know the other reason?"

"So I know the people I'll be leading," the words left my mouth confidently. "I'll lead most effectively if I earn my spurs, that I know the strengths from first-hand experience. The men know I've experienced what they have so they'll respect me when I'm finally revealed."

"Smart lad." Toyne glanced at Jon. "You have done well by him. I've met many young nobles not so learned. That is true, Aegon. I want to see if you're what Varys claims you are."

"So why did you want to see me, ser?" I asked.

He scratched his chin. "I did speak with Magister Illyrio and Varys who decided to slither over from King's Landing. Currently not much of importance is happening in Westeros, so no news there. But you though . . . you did single-handedly destroy Varys' master plan. Quite amusing to be perfectly honest. A spider is a harmless creature until it bites you when enraged, and you did enrage him."

"I-I understand, but . . . I couldn't lie. I won't. Not with this."

Myles nodded understandingly. "Lying has its uses, but so does honesty. The past has happened and won't unless Connington vouches for you. Will you, Jon?"

Jon Connington grimaced. "I'll die before going back to the lie, Toyne. Remember that."

"I don't expect you to. This will be different. No more lying between us friends, you have my word. But Aegon, you will remain hidden and continue as you do now. Later, you'll know how to command, how to lead. When the time comes, when Westeros is shattered and weak, we'll come. Only then will you reveal yourself."

"What of the Targaryens?" I ask, noticing Jon's face flicker at the word. "There is still two in the world. Viserys and Daenerys. Both hold greater claims than myself. Viserys is the rightful ruler." _Well, if one considers them to have a greater claim that is_. In the eyes of the Westerosi, both he and Dany held a greater claim than myself. Even though they were decedents of the Mad King, there were many who would rise for them. They had supporters from those loyal to House Targaryen, those disliking Baratheon rule and houses who were simply opportunistic. The idea of Blackfyre's being serious contenders after so many defeats would be laughable to the Westerosi, I was sure. Besides the "friends in the Reach," all the supporters of House Blackfyre were either exiles, extinct or had switched sides.

Myles Toyne didn't seem happy with my words. "It can be said they have the superior claim in the eyes of most of Westeros, tis true. But do not worry about such a thing. Robert Baratheon is sitting the Iron Throne at the moment and his eyes are on them. Not you. He doesn't even know you exist."

"But the Targaryens . . ."

"It can be safe to say that Varys has agents watching them—"

"That is not what I—"

He shut me up with, "They are protecting you from King Robert's eyes. The last thing any of us want is for you to get noticed by the Iron Throne. Varys may be Master of Whispers, but I trust the eunuch only as far as I can throw him. Prince Viserys is nothing for you to worry your pretty little head over. He's safe going from place to place. He's an exiled Targaryen living on charity, he'll survive, and that's good enough for me."

I frowned. "Good enough for you?"

Toyne shrugged. "That's me being charitable with my words. In truth, Viserys Targaryen nor his kin deserve pity, especially from what his family did to mine. You could say this is a little payback after a century of injustice. He's the Mad King's son and, if my reports are correct as was my past experience, he seems to be following the same path. A danger I'll rather not risk."

I bit back my retort and saw Jon keeping silent for some reason. Though he didn't say anything, I could tell he saw it differently. I sighed, bowed my head like an obedient little boy and agreed with his course of action. Despite of what Myles claimed, I needed the Targaryens. I needed Daenerys' dragons. With my Blackfyre blood there was a chance I could even claim one.

* * *

A/N: I'm not much a fan of this chapter but I'm curious on your thoughts. Please forgive me for any grammar/spelling mistakes.

As I've said before, thank you to those who've favourited, followed and commented. I'm thankful for the support. As always, I hope you've enjoyed it.

Comments:

AlexFalTon: I don't plan to.

ficreader2011: That could be a possibility, though currently I don't have any pairings planned.

Kukogin: Likely. The Targaryens are important though it should be of note that Connington never seemed to care about them when he believed YG was a Targ. But as Aegon's a Blackfyre, he very well might.

Dirk Digglit: Thank you. Having SI-Aegon getting his ass kicked was fun to write. I aim for him using his wit and not much of a fighter (at least in the beginning). I agree with what you said, though I don't think they'll slit his throat, properly grumble and roll their eyes instead. Aegon is only twelve at this point, at least in body.

Guest: I do plan on Aegon riding a dragon and having him ride Drogon is a tempting idea, though one I've already done for Fire and Retribution. A Blackfyre riding a black dragon would be fitting.


	6. Chapter 5: Reform

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 5: Reform**

* * *

I was in the midst of sparring against Qarro when Myles Toyne approached me with his arms folded behind his back and a broad smile on his face. Upon noticing, both me and the much larger Braavosi broke apart. "Legs further apart, Titan. Don't really want to lose your balance and be thrown to the floor, do you? I know Griffin here know's some ways against those larger and stronger than himself. And you, Young Griff, try not to get hit."

I bowed my head, wryly thanking him for his sage counsel.

Blackheart turned to Drahar. "Mind if I borrow Griffin here? I know he's training and getting humbled before the lads, but I need a word with him. I shan't be long and you can give him some more beatings afterwards."

"Of course, captain-general. How could I refuse?" Master Drahar ordered Qarro off and for the Darkstone brothers to take our place. Both entered the sparring grounds smirking.

I, on the other hand, was thankful to be taken off and silently thanked Myles as I was escorted away. While my martial skills were improving by the day, no part of me was free of bruises. _Pain makes you stronger_ , was a saying I've heard and I hoped so, else it would have been for nothing. I wasn't just being beaten into being a good soldier. True to his word, Blackheart taught me leadership though he wouldn't have me skip other lessons to compensate for it. The captain-general would repeatedly drill into my head the importance of continuing my lessons as a normal soldier, general and future king. My lessons with Haldon and Septa Lemore continued, though Jon Connington no longer taught me for he had his own duties. Once, when I'd been little and living in a tiny house on the outskirts of London, I much preferred the idea of being a prince than king; in the stories princes went on all the adventures and had none of the responsibility, even if they had to marry a princess at the end which was something that didn't appeal to me. I almost scoffed at my past self. I was wiser now and, as a result, I didn't want to be royalty. Not because I didn't want power. Screw that. I had ambitions and desired power and authority. Both were needed to replace an established political system into a more modern nation state. I never got the appeal nor could I understand why people romanticised the idea of a reluctant ruler. Robert Baratheon was a reluctant king and he sure as hell was not someone I'd want as monarch. Regardless, being king would simply paint a target on my back. Being the power behind the throne would be a better alternative.

Entering the tent made of cloth-of-gold, we both took a seat. On the table was my chess set of ivory and onyx. They were beautifully detailed, with the only difference being that bishops had been renamed septons for there was no such thing as bishops in this world. Despite having a short life, chess is now considered a game for the nobility and wannabe strategists like myself.

 _I should really brand and sell it. Make myself a mint._ It was a shame patents didn't exist. _Though I could always invent them too . . ._

Myles Toyne ran a calloused hand through his dark-hair and smiled at me. While he was a homely man, he did one of the most genuine smiles I'd ever seen. "Desire a game?"

More than eager for another victory, I accepted. The captain-general really enjoyed chess and played regularly against Harry and Lysono, or me when we had the time. I always won but Myles was a fast learner and I wagered he'd soon be my equal or even surpass me. I went first, moving my knight past the line of pawns.

"So my lord, you wanted to speak with me?" While he wasn't a lord of anything, he liked the title. Despite the Golden Company being more meritocratic than most, flattery and blood still got you places. I was a prime example of that.

"You desired to speak with me, lad. You asked something when I didn't have the time. I have time now. So . . ."

I nodded, thanking him. Running a hand through my hair, I wondered how to best begin. I had never been one for thinking on my feet. "There are some improvements I believe may aid the Golden Company."

Toyne didn't look up at me as he planned his move. His hand rested on a pawn. "While you do make good games, lad, I doubt you know what's needed to properly run an army. I won't deny your suggestion outright, if that's what you fear. I know you're smart. Though I do wonder what you've to put forth that generations of officers haven't already suggested."

I took a breath, feeling sweat on my hands. "I thank you for giving me the opportunity." _Christ, why does this feel like an interview?_ "After spending time here, I believe there are various ways the Golden Company can be improved upon. While they may cost a bit of coin to implement, I know it'll be worth it in the long run."

Myles eyed me warily before moving his pawn up two spaces, leaving his king open at an angle. "Long run? While I don't deny we invest in our force so we receive the very best, we still need to make a profit and just how long is _long_? Anything can happen between those two points. But I'll hear you. Haldon has nothing but praise for your abilities."

Once more, I thanked him, allowing myself a shy smile. "Seeing as we already have a dedicated corps of spies headed by Lysono Maar for the purposes of espionage, scout as well as to influence local politics, I believe we can do likewise with a specialised corps of engineers. They'll be useful in our operations when it comes to constructing fortifications, siege engines and more complex construction like laying down bridges over rivers that can't be crossed. Not to mention breach enemy defences. This is only one idea of many."

Myles Toyne rubbed his chin, his eyes remaining fixed on the board. "I very much get what you mean to say. But I question why, at least currently. It's unwise to take fortifications and that's not the type of warfare we fight. We surround, cut them off and force our enemy to surrender. Less casualties that way."

"What about Qohor when it failed to pay a contract?"

"That was when the Company was young. The Qohorik were fools and we breached the walls. The fortifications were undermanned and the leadership arrogant. Once the gates were open, the city was easy pickings."

 _Unsullied defending fortifications is easy pickings?_ I had my doubts before, but upon hearing of the eunuchs failing to defend a city with so many force multipliers really made me doubt the repute of the Unsullied. "It'll be easier if there's a dedicated group to handle it," I defended my point. "While we don't crack cities or fortresses open here, engineers will improve our camps, make siege engines when they're needed. Not just for taking cities, but scorpions that can be used on the battlefield. We won't need to outsource engineers for we'll already have them. Whether a handful or a hundred, I urge you to follow with my suggestion."

"Aegon," he said, voice low. "I understand what you're saying. But we currently don't require it. In the Disputed Land we don't take cities. They surrender and give us tribute. We leave and pillage the countryside. That is how we operate—"

I ran a hand through my hair, almost angrily. "In Westeros they'll hide in their castles and don't give a single shit about the smallfolk or the land burning around them. We could have people who can breach castles, construct trebuchets and smash those castle walls. We can mine underneath and bring the walls tumbling down. It's to make sure we have the skills when needed so we don't have our trousers down when we don't."

He looked at me, grinned, then moved a piece. "I see the dragon blood is flaring." He chuckled and I moved my knight, taking his pawn. "Perhaps you're right. May I ask where the idea came from?"

 _The Roman Legion_. While my knowledge of history wasn't flawless – shocking I know – they were the first army I was aware of that had a dedicated group of engineers. Such feats included constructing a double wall around a besieged city in Gaul and before them was Alexander the Great turning an island into a peninsula because they refused to surrender. Such feats were unheard of in this world and I wanted the Golden Company to be comparable of those feats. I knew they wouldn't be on the same level, at least not in my lifetime. Didn't mean I couldn't try. Such skills would be important in Westeros with the Golden Company bound to be outnumbered many times over. I'd need all the force multipliers I could get. That was why Essos was such a good starting point and launch pad. It had a large population, more advanced technology than Westeros and enough industry to properly equip such a force.

It was also rich. So very rich.

"Volantene siege tactics," I lied.

Myles nodded, moving a piece to defend his king. "I'll take your words into consideration, lad. _That_ I can promise."

"And I thank you for humouring it," I showed a slight grin and made my moved by horse out the way. "There are other things as well. Medical corps, as well as re-equipping all the men with entrenching tools and pickaxes."

Myles snorted. "Not only a specialised corps, you want all the army to be engineers?"

"In part," I grinned cheerfully. "Entrenching tools and pickaxes will improve our camps. I know some already use them and are well-versed. If all can be trained to build and dig to even a limited extent, our ability to rise up fortifications will be improved." _Not to mention roads_. The roads in Westeros – from what I heard – were little more than dirt paths. Which was surprising for how large the landmass was. Even the Inca's – who didn't even have written language – had better roads than Westeros and their empire was all built along steep hills. Speaking of which _. . . they did have good ideas when it came to logistics . . ._

"Possible." Myles bobbed his head thoughtfully. "What you're saying reminds me of New Ghis and Slaver's Bay. Their legions were taught the benefits of entrenchment. The Unsullied likewise. All are taught the art of digging and using the earth to create mounds which they implant sharpened stakes. We made a point to ensure they didn't return to their camps."

"Exactly what I'm aiming for," I announced, moving my piece where I was one step closer to winning the game. "Westerosi armies are full of cavalry, aren't they? But do you think it'll work?" I may know how historical armies on earth fought but I didn't know how effective they'll be here. I'd never fought a war before, let alone command. My idea could either revolutionise the Golden Company into a world class war machine like the armies of so many self-insert fanfics, or I may cripple my own army. Military reform didn't always work and even the best ideas would fail if not implemented correctly.

"What you say is very well feasible. Ideas are one thing, putting them into practise is another beast entirely." Toyne then smiled. "Let's hope you're as good at reorganisation as you are with games."

"Let's hope," I repeated with a slight grin. Then my expression faltered slightly. "My lord . . . may I ask you something?"

"You can ask me anything, lad. What is it? Does something concern you?"

I sipped in some air and thought how to approach this matter. "I've got a question about Jon Connington. He's, well, we haven't spoken for a while. A proper conversation you know. Jon's a good man. I'm worried about him."

Myles looked up at me from where his eyes had been fixed on the game throughout our conversation. "I'm aware of your current relationship. I know that Jon has been busy since he's returned to us. Like you, he needs to prove himself. Many still dislike our dear griffin lord so I've put him to work to regain their respect. He still has far to go with many seeing him as an oath-breaker and thief."

"I know we're both busy. But still . . . he just seems . . ."

"He's not mad with you if that's what you believe. He wouldn't be here in the Company if he was mad. Oh, trust me, he was certainly angry with me. I'd done more to earn his ire than you can even dream of. Yet you regularly see him by my side. While our dearest griffin can forgive, there are exceptions such as Varys and your father. Those two he will never forgive. I wouldn't even say he's truly forgiven me." Myles chuckled, using his knight to take my septon. "Believe it or not, it's not my face that's keeping him here in the Company. No it's not."

I allowed myself to smile and Toyne returned the gesture with almost fatherly affection.

"Jon . . . he's never been talkative from what I know of him, nor was he ever open. He's a closed off man, not eager to say what's on his mind. Full of sorrow and regret. When we first met I believed him shy, but inside he feels much. After your time together, I know he won't just leave you. Not now, not ever."

"Perhaps," I allowed, staring at the board. I fidgeted in my seat. "But . . ."

"If you worry, I _order_ you not to. Don't try to rush him. He'll come in his own time, no matter how long that may be."

I pursed my lips. "If you say so."

"I do say so." Blackheart moved his septon and put me into check. "Pay attention, lad. Keep both your mind and eyes open else you may find yourself backed into a corner."

...

I followed Myles Toyne, Jon Connington and several other officers in the tent where we examined the armoury.

Unlike most other free companies that either scavenged what they could from the battlefield or had the men buy their own equipment, the Golden Company had its own smiths, like Rolly, who made a mostly standardised assortment of kit designed to be protective and easily repairable. Unfortunately there were suits of boiled and studded leather as well as ringmail, armour which, while common throughout this world, also triggered me. As soon as I got the chance, I'll replace them with proper riveted mail and gambesons. Speaking of which, might as well standardise the use of brigandine and lamellar for the common soldiery. _Yes, that'll be wise_. Providing them better equipment would only improve their survivability as well as put them ahead of the Westerosi levies. It wasn't only armour in the tent though, before us were weapons placed in neat rows with servants and young squires tending the mail. Many times I'd been made to rub off the rust and oil the equipment. It was meant to be a humbling experience and one of my duties as a squire. I hated it.

"Here is where the equipment is kept," Connington told me, his pale-blue eyes surveying the tent, looking impressed at what he saw. He gave a gesture and everyone previously inside hurried outside, leaving us alone and able to speak freely.

I nodded, not needing an introduction to the armoury. "Thank you, my lord. I didn't ask you to come with me to list what you've got. I came to say what you should need. I assume the captain-general has told you of my ideas."

"Aye," Flowers muttered, scratching his neck as a fly hovered around him. He lazily waved it away. "You want to change the way the company is organised. How it's equipped. How it operates."

"You are indeed correct, though I'll leave the implementation to you. You're more skilled than I am when it comes to that. I've been reading . . ." that seemed to earn a few eye rolls from the Westerosi. Many of them couldn't read. I understood they were sellswords from a culture that saw learning as something for scribes and maesters. The Essosi, however, had basic skills for the most part and didn't carry the disdain. "I'd been speaking with Ser Myles Toyne and . . . we came up with a few ideas to put forth." I knew one thing that older men didn't like was to be outsmarted by a child and Myles would like the idea of him being a part of it also. "Together we looked at how the Company was organised and what could be changed for the future."

"Which is?" Connington asked me. He was most eager to hear it.

I swallowed. Everyone was staring, wanting to see what I was going to say. "We're all aware the Golden Company takes influence from those it's faced in the past. We share military traditions from various different cultures around the world. We have infantry who use the phalanx of Ghiscari legionary warfare to hold the enemy in place. Archers to weaken from a distance before melee and our cavalry, be it Essosi lancers or Westerosi knights, sweep around the flanks and fuck them hard up the arse."

Flowers laughed, and Harry said, "Don't forget the elephants."

I nodded cheerfully. While I found the elephants awesome, I knew they weren't practical for a sustained war. They were costly to supply and couldn't be easily replaced should they die. I knew the effect Hannibal's elephants had on the Romans but they weren't the deciding factor for his victories. They'd be good with aiding the baggage train though. _But if needed, they can serve the part of ultra-heavy cavalry_. Flexibility was key and overspecialisation was dangerous. "And working altogether they're worth more than any other army. You and your predecessors learned and incorporated various techniques into their repertoire to maximise the offensive and defensive capabilities of the Company. I would do no different in your place."

"End your praises else you'll make us blush," Harry said, none too warmly. "But how you would assume we should improve? You seem to hold us in high regard. As you should."

"I do hold you in high regard, but to say you should cease improving is a dangerous belief. War is ever changing and it'll be wise to change tactics to properly respond to a threat. One thing I've found and I assume you're aware of, is our flanks. With the tactics they employ, the infantry are in danger without cavalry support. If our cavalry are destroyed or flee the battle, the enemy can smash into our flanks and rear and our formation would crumple."

"Understandable concern, Young Griff," spoke Gorys Edoryen with his dyed ringlets. His accent was thick and his voice was usually mingled with bits of Volantene that, while my language skills were improving, I still couldn't fully understand. "But what is your solution to this problem?" He didn't really seem interested in my concern.

"We have cavalry," Melio said, kitted out in his chainmail armour he wore twenty-four-seven. "We have my lancers who number a three hundred, not to mention Westerosi knights and their squires. Thirteen-hundred cavalry we have and that number's greater than many other Free Companies."

 _But will it be enough to hold a few thousand knights?_ I paused for a moment. "You're right about that, commander. But there are other solutions like having a protective screen of infantry to protect our phalanx, equipped with other polearms such as hammers or axes . . ."

I walked over and grabbed a polearm. They were all taller than me with various different heads to suit different purposes. Thanks to me, bills were getting more common, as were poleaxes and polehammers which were among my favourite due to their sheer versatility. If my plans would go through, most infantry will be equipped with them. These weapons weren't all that common in Westeros where swords reigned king. I much preferred the polehammer: an inch-thick oak staff eight foot long, the tip like a dagger. Below the point was a single hammer/axehead on one side and a hook on the other. At the bottom was an iron butt-spike that could be used to cave in plate. It was cheaper than a sword, simpler to use and practical. The perfect primary weapon for infantrymen.

". . . like these." I grinned at them and balanced the weapon that was much taller than me. "These are superior to swords in the hands of infantry and thus should be given to all." _Perhaps they can have heavier armour as well_ , I mused. "For our cavalry, they're all heavy . . . maybe you could count the squires as medium. You need light horse as well."

"Our horsemen can go light when the situation require it."

"I don't doubt that, but having specialised light cavalry will do better. Mounted archers and skirmishers are a good addition to have. Mounted archers are dangerous. Not only can they harass our enemy's flank and rear, they can lure their men with feints or just circle and pepper them with arrows." _Maybe performing Parthian shot or cantabrian circles . . ._ While I'd seen some of the cataphracts drill with bows, they were heavy horse archers and we needed proper light cavalry. "But there is also something else. When I read my histories, the Company's main problem against the Westerosi are the knights. During the Ninepenny kings, I read Ser Barristan broke through the lines."

"Only because the white knight focused on one point," Myles told me. "His mounted contingent burst through and went straight towards the captain-general. Maelys went to intercept, as was his way. If not for Ser Barristan we would have won the day. But even then it only cost the battle, not the war."

 _It did cost the war though_. "In no way do I question the Golden Company's efficiency. The war was strikingly close despite the huge power difference." I earned a few smiles at that. "But it could be further improved upon. War is a constant race of sides learning new ways to kill, as I've said numerous times. The only way we can win this race is to innovate. What doesn't work can be ditched but not forgotten. What does work can be kept and further improved upon."

"I doubt adding more cavalry is your only reason. What are the others?"

I smiled, put the weapon back and walked over to where the bows were. "May I ask how many archers you have," I ask, looking at Harry who, as paymaster, also had a duty to keep track of equipment. The Golden Company did spend a lot of coin improving the condition of their organisation. That was one of the reasons I liked them so much. When faced with an enemy, the Company was flexible enough to improve fairly quickly. The best and most well-funded of organisations did receive the best minds after all.

"Near a thousand," he replied with an eye roll. Homeless Harry didn't like explaining himself to a child, clearly. "The Company so far numbers nine hundred archers. One third are men with double-curved-horn-and-sinew bows. They can be used either mounted or afoot. Another third are crossbowmen. The rest are longbowmen from Westeros, equipped with Dornish yew."

"They are under my command, boy," Black Balaq stated, his massive arms crossed. "The best are my own men. My own people. Fifty with goldenheart longbows. None can dare out range us."

I knew Balaq's own men were used more for sharpshooters then sending volleys. They attacked key targets like officers to disrupt the enemy command structure. A good group to have on my side. "Except siege artillery. I'll mention those later. I recommend there be more archers. Increase the number to as much as possible. If an enemy comes towards us, I'd want them to fight in the shade. A balance between crossbowmen and longbowmen, if you may. The more that die heading towards us, the less enemies we fight."

"How very noble of you," Flowers said with a wicked grin.

I smiled, replying with an artless shrug. "Honour may be the mark of a great man, but so is a tombstone. It isn't a shield. It doesn't stop arrows nor does it block a sword. If they're foolish enough to face us, well, they deserve to die." _Honour in warfare is the domain of the dead_.

Toyne smiled thinly. "For your age, I'm surprised with your ruthlessness. I don't deny your words. Archers have always been important to the Company. An understated component, I might add. From the way you've spoken, I'd wager you want to fight battles defensively?"

"Indeed. I want the archers to weather the enemies down, then we can smash them with our infantry while supported by the cavalry. But that isn't all. I mentioned artillery. What about a dedicated force involved in siege operations and battles? We can use ballistae, or scorpions if you'll rather they be called that. These will serve to kill targets from long range, further than even our furthest bowmen. Can be used similarly as Balaq's archers, but doesn't take as long to train." That was how the Romans used them, with a range up to four-hundred metres and able to shoot four bolts per minute. They had sixty per legion. I wanted twice as many for the Golden Company. It would be most useful. I'd been researching Westerosi armies and their faulty command structure. The death of a prominent lord or two would hinder their army if not cripple it. It was less based on competence and more whoever commanded the most men. As such, the commanders would bicker amongst themselves with petty grievances and politics getting in the way. "If we are going to take Westeros, as I'm sure is the plan, we need ways to take castles."

"I believe you underestimate how strong castles are," Harry grumbled. "They're not made to look pretty. They are fortresses to stand against any threat. Scorpions won't take them down. You need things like trebuchets."

"Counterweight trebuchet? Then we need some engineers then, don't we." _You walked into that one, didn't you?_ "People skilled enough to build them to take these castles down. The walls, the towers, the gates. I understand your concern with cost. That is understandable. But it would cost more should we be beaten and need to reform the army from the remnants. This is an investment that will benefit us in the long term. Besides, the faster castles fall, the more loot that can take. Doing so would reward you commanders who serve faithfully in service of a Blackfyre."

Balaq snorted, folding his arms. "I speak for myself and others here in that we don't serve the Blackfyres. We serve the Golden Company."

 _And the Golden Company serves me_. "I understand. I know some of you will be doubting me and that's reasonable after my ancestors' failures. I, however, don't intend to fail. I intend to win." There were many who wanted me to lose and I'll have many enemies. _Like Bloodraven_. I didn't know how, but I needed to find a way to counter magic. I needed someone with proper knowledge of the arcane. _But where can I find a mage?_

Unlike Young Griff, I was no naïve and headstrong child. I'll not be a dead man walking destined to die thanks to an angry dragon queen, nor would I be a simple plot device. I'll kill those who stand before me. I don't care who they are. Jon Snow, Tyrion Lannister, Daenerys Targaryen, I'll give them no quarter in the wars to come should we come to blows.

 _Whether I'm fighting gods or kings or fate itself, I will win_. That, I declared, was a promise.

* * *

A/N: Another chapter. Sorry for the delay and possible grammar mistakes but I've been busy in real life like releasing my own book on amazon. Hope you enjoyed this chapter with further additions added to improve the Golden Company. I know the recent chapters are too focused on the military aspects, which can be expected in a sellsword company, but I do plan on slightly lessening it over time. The next chapter should be more character based.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this and once again I have to thank everyone who's commented, followed or favourited. This fic has managed to pass 160 favourites and more than two hundred followers, which is great and grateful for.

Comments:

Blinded in a bolthole: Honestly, a zombie apocalypse by the others aren't factoring into his decision making at the moment. Westeros is his focus, not creatures behind a massive ice wall. Aegon a pragmatist at heart and will do what he can to win.

kail420: I agree with you on this. Coming from the mouth of an inexperienced child is unrealistic and would face challenge from more talented officers, so I sacrificed a bit of realism for the sake of plot. I would say that he managed to convince Myles Toyne and banking on both him and his Blackfyre name, so that'll be the in-universe justification.


	7. Chapter 6: The Lady of the Rhoyne

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 6: The Lady of the Rhoyne**

* * *

The march to Volantis was long, dull and many mornings had my comrades kick me awake. They always seemed to enjoy that. While I was normally an early riser, the recent training were all more intensive and my body couldn't wait to sleep and had a hard time getting up. I blamed myself for that.

It seemed Myles Toyne did take my words to heart and mind for we were given the new equipment I recommended. The rest of my team didn't like the idea of digging holes, but Galaerys explained that we needed to do it like the rest of the Company. I regretted putting forth my idea now that I had to dig trenches in the dry ground at the end of the long march sweltering under constricting layers of armour. _Think about all those leaders, the ones who were popular with the men_. Napoleon, I think was one of them, and Julius Caesar as well. In his campaigns he ate with the men, slept with the men. He was popular and they fought for him. _It could be you. They'll respect you and fight for you. Maybe they'll follow you to hell and back_.

I only hoped it would be that easy. It certainly sounded so in my head.

As the sun was beginning to set, we made camp in Mesylosh where the river linked the Lysene Coast to the southernmost twin lakes. On both sides of the river were massive estates, farmed by armies of slaves red-skinned under the blistering sun. Seeing nothing but fields for miles around, I could see why the Free Cities had such a demand. Slaves were useless if they were doing nothing so they were sent to the plantations and fields – with many of the luxury goods being exported to Westeros where nobles would pay through the nose.

We made camp when the sun was beginning to set. Our encampment always had the same layout which improved the speed it was built. Men with rope and pegs marked the layout and the rest of us needed to build it. We dug ditches, formed a mound of the dirt on the inside and planted sharpened stakes to dissuade any attackers. The inside was neat and orderly, the tents having been raised a fair distance away from each other to strike a fair balance of size and freedom of movement. The officers and important structures stood in the centre, living quarters on one side and loot on the other. The Golden Company had a lot of loot which was always under heavy guard. Whenever Jon Connington went over there, he was the focus of everyone's eye. Despite having Myle's Toyne's trust, he didn't have it from the men. Many hated him.

Speaking of hate . . .

"We're men of the Golden Company and we're made to do guard duty!" Jon Waters complained inside the tent. He was sulking atop his bedroll, arms wrapped around the knees pressed to his chest. "When I joined I hoped it was endless fighting in the Disputed Lands. If I wanted to be a guard, I would have joined the fucking gold cloaks."

 _Melodrama much_ , I thought as I cleaned my armour.

"It's easy money," Damon said, sharpening his knife with a whetstone. It was a nice looking knife with an ivory handle engraved with Valyrian runes. Simple, but I always found simplicity to look better than many of the gaudy things I'd seen so far. "It's only for a short time and guard duty has little risk. Besides, I always wanted to visit Volantis. I heard its brothels are among the best."

Mallor snorted. "You're thinking about Lys, you fool. The perfumed city has whores who were bred to be fucked. Many with the blood of Old Valyria. Volantis, in comparison, is like that soiled whore who had too many cocks in her."

"Maidens are nice, but the older ones know all the tricks. Beautiful whores are nice to look at, but doesn't matter if you're behind them and they say the homely ones are the hungriest once abed," Symeon grinned with a light shrug. "I won't care."

"Of course you won't," softy muttered Jon.

"Indulge in Volantis and you'll be given the pox," Qarro stated matter-of-factly. "I don't even think you deserve that."

As they continued their discussion, I thought about our latest objective. Haldon had informed me that Volantis was holding an election for the three ruling Triachs. From what I heard, those elections were usually chaotic, enough for the proud Volantenes to hire outside help to maintain the peace. It seemed the Golden Company took work like many private military contractors in that they provided security. Though I did think there was something else going on in the background. Myles was very eager with talking to the Triachs after the elections were done. If I was a betting man, I would wager he was looking for backers and support for the future invasion of Westeros. I would need to delay him if that was the case. We couldn't move until the War of the Five Kings, and perhaps some time after. The pragmatic time to land was when the land was a burning ruin and their armies devastated by war. Then we could land with fresh troops and blitzkrieg the remaining opposition.

"Griff," called Symeon. I shook the thought out my head and turned to him. He must had been calling my name a few times because he looked annoyed. "Got wax in your ears?"

"No. I was just thinking."

Leo shook his head. "You think too much."

"Maybe," I agreed. "But what was it? Apologies for not listening."

Symeon rolled his eye. "What say you, Griffin? When it comes to women, are you an arse or breast man?"

I stared at him for a moment, shook my head, and continued cleaning the suit of mail. "Sometimes I don't know why I listen." Most of the time, Symeon just made stupid japes. I wagered this was one that would be made to ridicule me somehow. I wasn't going to give him the chance.

The ginger-haired squire bobbed his head in the corner of my vision. "You heard him. He likes being sodomised up the arse."

That caused Jon to laugh and call me effeminate.

I rolled my eyes. "You, sir, are a fool."

"I'm no ser. Not yet. But I will be soon. Sooner than you." Symeon grinned, revealing crooked teeth. "Then you'll have to do as I say for I'll be a knight."

"I fear the day when that happens," Qarro grumbled as he oiled his hauberk. "You can't command a thirsty horse to water. I'll dread to think how you'll deal with people."

"Still better than you," the younger boy shot back, pouting his lips. "When I'm captain-general, you'll be sorry." It was always Qarro and Symeon who had a go at each other, though I could see the Braavosi was amused from the reaction from the flicker of his one-sided smile.

"I'm sure you'll give him the thrashing of a lifetime," Damon butted in with his sing-song voice. "But now, I want to sleep and listening to you two promises none of that."

"Beauty sleep more like," I jeered. Sleep would be good though. On the morrow we'll be marching into Volantene territory. "You were always the vain one."

That made some of them laugh. "Only because I need to keep my position as comeliest member of Serpent Squad," Damon said, taking it in full stride. "If not for me, you lot would be called the squad of the ugly."

"If not for you, we'll be the squad of the skilled," Rickard mumbled. "Maybe you'll match the rest of us if you rip your eyes from the mirror long enough."

Letting them continue their verbal jabs at each other, I droned out the racket, put my equipment to the side and laid down. It would be a long day and busy march to Volantis and I wanted as much sleep as possible.

...

After days of forced march, we finally reached the rivers of the Rhoyne.

Captain-general Myles Blackheart ordered us to make camp and recover for a few days. We were ahead of schedule so he could afford to take the liberty. As usual, I didn't really have a chance to take a break like the others and instead pressed into my studies with Haldon, Septa Lemore and Duck – who'd been knighted by Jon and became Ser Rolly Duckfield just like in the books. After my language lessons with the Halfmaester, the other members of Serpent Squad appeared outside the pavilion where they requested I come with them and sneak out of camp. I was confused, initially, but peer pressure being the bitch that it was, I followed – though it was less willing and more them grabbing me by the arm and leading the way. To be honest, relaxing by the river away from the overprotective gaze of Toyne and Connington did sound appealing and they made the solemn, though untrustworthy, vow to not splash me this time. I wasn't convinced.

We left the palisade walls of the camp and walked along the river many of the men were bathing and pissing in. That was when Symeon spoke up about a possible witch who'd been said to live next to the river and Qarro proclaimed there was no such thing.

"It's true," the ginger-haired boy declared, his high-pitch voice breaking and earning a laugh from the lot of us. His freckled face went red with embarrassment. "The locals said so at the local cyvasse den. I tried to teach them checkers and they laughed at me." He pouted. "I lost most my coin but they told me of her. A witch who'd tell us the future. They call her the Lady of the Rhoyne. A blood mage."

"Rhoynish mage," Mallor corrected, fanning away a swarm of flies hovering lazily beside the flat waters. "Mayhaps one of the few who remained since Princess Nymeria sailed her fleet to Westeros."

"Isn't it Queen Nymeria?" I asked, remembering the histories I read. "They call her queen, not princess."

The olive-skinned boy rolled his dark eyes. "We of the Rhoynar never had kings nor queens. We had princesses and princes. Nymeria was a princess, not a queen. Only those north of the Red Mountains think otherwise, and they're wrong. They don't understand."

"Looks like you struck a nerve, Griff," laughed Jon, bumping me in the side with an elbow. "Princess, queen. What's the difference? All high and mighty and above the likes of us."

 _Maybe except me_ , though I kept that thought to myself.

Eventually we reached it. Rising from the side of the stream was a shack. It was the most clichéd looking thing I'd seen in this world. It was like one of those herbalists huts one would find in a game. The building was dark with a tall peaked roof of mouldy thatch and surrounded by a garden with chickens and fenced off patches of vegetables. Clustered around the shack were tall trees, all warped and creepy with jagged branches and a terrifying presence. Leaning over the waters were willows, their long leaves dangling into the shallow river that fed the greater Rhoyne.

I shivered, suddenly feeling cold despite the sunny day.

 _There is no such thing as magic_ , but I knew those words didn't matter anymore. This was Essos, not earth. To deny magic here was to deny the very laws of physics. Yet, as we proceeded closer, I couldn't look away. There was something in the air. The whole thing felt unnatural, unsettling. I trailed behind them, glancing at the thick foliage growing on the sides of the stream. The place was secluded and would be easily ignored by anyone who weren't looking for it.

"I can't believe you roped me into this," I grumbled.

"Craven," Symeon taunted mischievously, turning around with a toothy grin. "Scared of an old woman in a shack?"

"No," I stated. "I'm just cautious about ominous buildings in the middle of nowhere. What if it's a trap by slavers?" In truth, I knew magic was real in this world and I didn't want to be on the receiving end of it. How much magic was to be debated, but seeing as there were tales of bloodmages forcing people to mate with animals to bring forth half-human abominations, I was cautious. _Not to mention shadow assassins_.

Qarro rolled his eyes. "Should slavers come, we can take them. We're men of the Golden Company. Not to mention, pirates rarely come this far south. This area is patrolled by the Volantenes."

"The Titan is correct," Damon said wryly, running a hand through his annoyingly perfect curls. "Come, if you're man enough. Otherwise wait in the swarm. Bloody river attracts them like flies to a rotting corpse."

I reluctantly agreed and fidgeted as they knocked the door. The door opened to reveal a young woman. I rose an eyebrow at the sight. She had dark-olive skin and dark-brown eyes. Her hair, too, was brown and an untamed collection of ringlets. She could be considered attractive, in a way, through her face was closer to being plain.

"And what have I here? A troupe of boys at my door. It must be my name day." She sounded tired. The woman spoke in the Volantene tongue though there was a foreign drawl to her voice, making it sound slightly sultry. "If you're bandits and the like, you've done a fine job. Don't hide or attack me unawares, just walk right to the front door. At least you do so to my face, even if your balls are yet to drop for any of you."

They all bristled at that and Jon grumbled a curse under his breath. "We're not bandits," Rickard declared, puffing out his chest and trying to appear taller. "We are men of the Golden Company."

"So bandits draping themselves in gold?" She rose an eyebrow. "Not much difference there. So tell me, _boy_ , why come here if not to sack my home and rape my person? Tell me truthfully and quick. I don't have all the time in the world."

"We heard you were a bloodmage, milady," Damon said with a boyish grin. "We want to see what you can do."

"I'm a spectacle to you? To dance for your entertainment? Oh, thank you. That means the world." Damon flushed and I grinned. Then her attention turned to me. Her dark eyes stared at me and they were cruel. "Blue hair is it? People only cover that if their either vain or have something to hide. Which one are you?"

"Vain," Jon answered for me. "Never seen a worse lad."

Her thin lip's formed a smirk. "Mayhaps. Why come here? I'm a healer but also a mage. Not a bloodmage which, frankly, makes me sound less skilled than I actually am."

 _She's the vain one_. "You were said to see the future," I said. _I know so I can tell if you're truthful_.

"In exchange for some blood I can see your future," she said to us all, sounding like she'd said those words a thousand times before. "I'll only accept one at a time and for five bronze marks from each of you. I don't want my home to be full of sellsword spawn."

"You should speak to us more politely," Leo grimaced, patting the sword at his side.

She looked as fazed as if we were a bunch of mice threatening a lion. "I'm quaking in my sandals. Who's first?"

"I'll do it," Damon grinned, pulling out the coins from the purse on his belt. "I know I'm destined for great things. Here's the time to prove it." She looked amused by that but allowed him inside, slamming shut the door behind her.

I shot a glance at the rest of Serpent Squad and we waited. We threw rocks at the river, talked and even pressed our ear to the door to listen in. All the shutters were locked from the inside and the room was oddly silent. Eerily so.

I took my chance after Damon. Taking out a few coins I got from running errands within the Company, I was allowed access. Honestly, I was impressed and repulsed at what I saw. Leaning against the walls were shelves packed with an impressive display of sealed pots and jars filled with dried herbs, sweet smelling spices and various fluids, each one labelled with tiny handwriting. On the tables were frogs that had been cut open, their innards exposed and swarming with flies. I shuddered at the sight. The smell was strong enough to make me feel like throwing up. In the centre was a table with a bowl of water and beside it was another containing two burning matches of aromatic wood.

The witch sat at the table, casually drawing on the wood with the tip of her finger. She seemed to know my presence but refused to acknowledge it. When I took a seat, she looked up. Her eyes were cloudy but seemed to look into my soul. Thin lips pursed, expression serious.

"I heard you knew magic," I said, somewhat sceptical. I made myself comfortable on the wooden chair. One of the legs was shorter than the others which made me rock back and forth. It was annoying her already.

"You heard correctly, Tyroshi," she tipped her head to the side. Her eyes bore deeper. "But you're not Tyroshi are you?"

I smirked. "You discovered my secret. May I ask how you came to find out such a revelation?" I put my elbows on the table, immediately removing them when she stared daggers. Darn she looked threatening when pissed off.

"Your accent. I don't need magic for that. You lack the drawl required for such a dialect. No, your voice is different from what I usually hear. Never heard such an accent in my entire life and I've known a few. I'm sure you didn't come to listen to me speak of this. The coins?" I emptied my hand on the table and she scooped them up. "How old are you, boy? Ten?"

"Twelve." _Twenty_.

"Could have fooled me. Give me your thumb."

I did, but pulled away when she took out a pin. "Is that clean?" I didn't want to get a disease from a filthy needle. The medieval ages didn't have that good cleanliness and I doubted a shack in the middle of the woods would hold high standards.

"Of course it's clean. I wash them in acid." She rolled her eyes at that. "I'm no fool. Those girly fingers of yours are safe from being cut off."

I narrowed my eyes at her words. In truth, I was surprised there was one who knew the dangers of unclean medical equipment. Hesitantly I offered my thumb and she jabbed at it, not tenderly like the nurses I've had. It was a sharp pain and blood came to the surface. Taking my hand, she faced my thumb down to the pool where a few drops turned the clear water a shade of pink. I raised an eyebrow at the witch who muttered some words I didn't understand. I guessed she was performing magic like what was done with Cersei and the mage she visited. It would be interesting to see what this woman said. No doubt I've already created butterflies by my very arrival in this world.

She stared down at the bowl for what felt like an eternity. Then she slowly looked up, her eyes were glassy and face was plastered in horror. "What are you?"

I felt a cold shiver go up by spine at those words and I leaned back. The chair almost slipped backwards. Only at the last moment was I able to keep my balance. What she said: _what_ not _who_. Having those spoken to me felt dehumanising. Then the realisation dawned on me. _Damn it_. She must have looked at my past. A mage I ask to look to the future looked backwards instead.

I felt sick. I wanted to keep it secret. I _needed_ to keep it a secret.

"How is this possible?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. That's why I came here." I tried to keep my voice calm but it hitched.

The Rhoynish mage stood up, confused, and prowled the room. She went through the glasses neatly lined up, scratched her face and rubbed her eyes, all the while muttering in a language I knew not a word of. That went on for what felt like five or so minutes, all the while I just stared, ready to defend myself if she lunged. Abruptly, she span on her heels to the look at me. The look of fear turned inquisitive and her thin lip's slowly formed a sly little smile. "I would never have expected this, son of Terra."

"Terra?"

"The place where you're from. It's not this world." Taking a deep breath, she sat back down opposite me, placing her elbows on the table and chin atop her knuckles. She no longer looked scared, but intrigued. "I'd consider you a spirit, but that wouldn't strictly be true, would it?"

"You know . . ." my words were little more than a whisper. "How?"

"The Mother Rhoyne knows all and will tell her most faithful the secrets of others should a proper sacrifice be available: a few drops. Blood has power. You should know that seeing as you are Valyrian, spirit or no spirit. You and your kind are special that way, despite your tendency for madness by your more than queer way of marriage."

"Incest."

"A darkness upon the soul, or so I'm told."

I glanced around the room. _Why did I do this and allow someone to know my secret?_ I chewed my bottom lip. "If you know this about me, may I ask who you are, my lady? It will give us slightly more equal footing."

"Lyra. They call me the Lady of the Rhoyne. As well as hedgewitch, bloodmage, foreseer, spirit talker, shadowbinder and all other trifles. Those titles are not important and most of them are only spoken in hushed whispers." She leaned closer. "But you though, you're an interesting specimen, truly."

 _Great, I've encountered a bloodmage who sees me as a lab rat. Beautiful. I'll surely thank them should I make it through this_. "You know I'm not from here. Is there any way I can go home. Out this kid's body and back to earth?"

"You'll go home."

That caught my interest. "When?" My voice was hopeful.

She chuckled, leaning back. "You know how this song and dance works. When the dark flame becomes the champion of the shadows of winter. When the chosen lays defeated. When the Old Gods become a burnt husk. Only then may you return whence you came."

"What the blimmin' . . ." _Prophesy speak? Seriously?_ "What are you talking about? Speak normally. I don't have the patience for this sort 'a thing."

Lyra chuckled. "You know it's less fun if I give you the blunt response." She leaned forward once again, looking directly into my eyes. I flinched and averted my gaze. "You were rebirthed into this world. How? I don't know. Some force, maybe the gods. But whatever the cause, blood and bones keep you here. You will not return while you still draw breath. You won't ever return to the world you left."

I stared, quizzing at those words. Then I responded the most eloquent way I could, "Oh fucking fuck. Fan-fucking-tastic."

Lyra looked amused and then shrugged in a way that said she gave exactly zero shits. "I wish I could help . . . that is incorrect and no more than a lie. It would be interesting to study you and see how this worked, however."

I groaned, running a hand through my hair. I could feel tears run down my cheeks. I needed to think about something else. I couldn't let myself have a moment of weakness. The grief, the fury, I forced those emotions into a tiny box in the bottom of my subconscious and slammed shut the lid. All that I now felt was a cold clarity that would be my only safeguard. Taking a deep breath, I changed the subject to something that would aid me and avoid thinking of the past. I needed to think of the future. Solely the future.

"You said they call you a shadowbinder, a bloodmage. How do you know these? Where did you learn?" If this woman was being truthful, it was akin to finding a nuclear physicist in a secluded part of the forest, amidst world war two. Though the inside of her shack also reminded me of those conspiracy nuts who secluded themselves because they believed the government was watching them. _Maybe a mad scientist?_ The fact that she'd been cutting up animals did nothing to improve my opinion of her.

"I was found by one of those maesters. The men with chains around the necks. Marwyn was his name. He came across the sea from the Sunset Kingdoms. He taught me the words for fire and blood and shadow. In return I taught him the language of the waters."

"You taught him Rhoynish magic and in return you learned other forms of magic from him?"

"Indeed. I learned much. I have respect for the western man. I have some of his books. They're my most valuable processions."

I grinned at that.

"You find that amusing, boy?" That removed the grin from my lips. "The superstitious woman who lives alone is funny to you?"

"No . . . my lady. I just . . . ugh," I ran a hand through my hair. "I-I'm curious as to why? I heard that magic has disappeared since the last of the dragons died out."

"It has," Lyra admitted before deciding to examine her nails. She looked bored of the conversation. "But there's still knowledge that is left from what had been. In the waters of the Mother Rhoyne, her gift still persists. She provides me with the gift I inherited. But I could only do so much with what I'd been given. I needed to do the rest myself. For you see, most people live their ways on an isle of vapid ignorance. They shy away from the dark and hungry waters that surround it. To gain knowledge – true knowledge of the world and how it works – one must brave the tides. But there is a danger to it. One cannot expect to see the shores ever again."

 _That sounded like how magic here works_. Here, magic was dangerous and unpredictable. Effective should there be a skilled practitioner, but it was hard to even begin let alone master. "Well . . . I don't know how to respond to that," I confessed with a slight smirk. "Magic isn't really my forte."

Lyra rolled her eyes. "You don't say. We both know you didn't come to converse about magic. You wanted to see your future. Is that right?"

"I wouldn't mind talking about magic but, yes, I did come to ask about my future. Or that was why my compatriots dragged me here. Besides the whole not returning thing and winter's shadows . . . whatever that is . . . what is my future?"

Lyra the Mage looked once more at the bowl. "I see a dragon, battered and bloody, laying atop the bones and skulls of stags and lions. I see a wolf sitting atop a mountain of spikes. I see a monster with the face of a man and surrounded by a sea of withering tentacles. I see a brewing storm."

I blinked, my brain trying hard to process the information. I took a deep breath and ran my hand through my hair. I felt itchy all of a sudden. Sweaty. "That's a lot to unpack."

She grinned wickedly. "Put you on the spot, didn't I, Blackfyre?"

"Once upon a time, I didn't believe magic even existed. I believed in science and reason and still do. But magic though . . . you alone proved me wrong. But what you saw . . . can it be avoided?"

"Magic is just another field of science," she stated as fact. "One would be a fool to not properly explore it. But prophesy though, oh, prophesy is a complex beast. Marwyn quoted me the words of Gorghan of Old Ghis. He wrote that prophecy is like a treacherous woman. She takes your cock in her mouth, and how it seems oh sweet and wonderful, then the teeth shut and your moans turn to screams. The nature is that, no matter what, it will find a way to ruin you. I personally despise the art of foretelling to be perfectly honest. But coin is coin and people love hearing about their future . . . until they hear it. Despite all the warnings, no matter what, everyone's life comes to the same conclusion. There are just some things that can't be avoided."

"Then I won't ask for more than. But do you think it can be changed?" Though from the way the books worked, it seemed predestination was a thing. One couldn't change their fate.

"The future is a river. One person's attempt to stop it is to throw in a pebble in the water. Pebbles don't stop a fast flowing river. Everything has a cause and effect. One thing I'll say, though, is that adherence to prophecy over common sense is nothing but foolishness. Especially if you can't be certain whether you're interpreting the damn thing correctly in the first place."

I looked up, felt the corner of my lips twitch. "You're saying me you may be wrong?"

"Reading the future is all interpretation. It's all imagery, for the gods don't let you get a clear picture of the future. With reading the future, either it's a perfect foretelling in which case nothing you do will affect the outcome. Or it could be false and therefore unreliable in which case there's a good chance the thing will mean nothing anyway. The alternative is that the prophecy has many interpretations and will adapt to changing circumstances in which case, again, you may as well listen to common sense."

I thought hard about it. The crazy thing was, it could be any. In truth, I despised the idea of prophesy and fate both in life and within stories. But this world . . . unlike earth, those things could be legitimate possibilities.

"I see you pondering."

"I am. You have given me much to think about." I smiled, feeling my thoughts click together into a coherent picture of what I needed to do. "Tell me, Lady Lyra. What is it you want most in the world? I'm curious."

She looked at me quizzing and answered slowly, "There are all different kinds of magic in this world. The Valyrians used blood and fire. My people use water. Qarth has the house of the Undying. Yi Ti specialises in the mysteries of the stars. All of them are related to magic. I have theories and ideas on how they all work together. What I want, what I truly want, is to rip open the world and the very source. I want to learn and study to see how everything functions. Seeing as you're a Blackfyre, a self-styled dragon born of the Sunset Kingdoms, you may want your mound of rusted iron. I want knowledge for knowledge is the only prize worth having."

"Knowledge is very important. The quill is mightier than the sword." I put on my most charming smile. She wasn't having it. "What if you join me? I'm a Blackfyre and will lead the Golden Company, the best sellsword company in Essos, maybe the world."

"You must think me a fool. I will not go with you just because you say so."

"Of course not. I don't think I have the charisma, nor can a few pretty words make you come with. But I do think it'll be in your best interest. I see your books and you have a few, but there are always more. If you join me, I could get you whatever you need." A mage would be a useful thing to have. Stannis had Melisandre, but where he would use her to guide the way, I could use Lyra for other things. A Rhoynish mage would certainly be a powerful asset. They fought Valyria's dragons and brought many down. That wasn't to mention she claimed knowledge of shadowbinding. With the rise of magic to happen later, it would be foolish not to get someone who is capable of wielding the stuff.

She hummed and I could see a shadow of a smile if for the briefest moment. "Knowledge is power indeed. I'm guessing you think you can use me to take what you think is yours."

"The Iron Throne." _No, I don't want that. Kingship is poison. I'll be generous and let someone else shoulder that burden_. "My birthright as a Blackfyre. Many see me as the rightful king." I supposed that was true.

She rolled her eyes. "There is no such thing as a rightful king. There are those who are powerful enough to hold a throne and those who aren't. Did the Valyrians have a rightful claim to my homeland when they decided to genocide and enslave my people? Did the Starks have a claim when they did likewise to the surrounding kingdoms? Did Aegon Targaryen have a claim to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros?"

"You don't seem to like the Valyrians. For justifiable reasons."

"You heard my words or do you have wax in your ears? My people were destroyed, my people's culture was destroyed, and Mother Rhoyne's power has forever weakened. Those who survive are like me and clinging on to whatever pieces remain. The others fled to the Sunset Kingdoms and have forgotten their way."

"I've seen the ruins. I've walked through temples and palaces long since fallen to the elements. I've even drawn what is left so I won't forget them. In truth, paper can't really preserve them, not even the vastness of the ruins. It would have been wonderful to see them when they still stood and were inhabited."

"Your people destroyed them."

"My ancestors but not myself. The sins of the father shouldn't be put on the child," I said slowly, calmly. "All that brings is ruin and destruction upon all. An endless cycle of revenge that will not stop. The only way to improve is to aid each other in common cause. You want knowledge and I'm sure you want to return the powers to your people. I can aid you in that. I can give you resources to do what you need to do. All that I ask in return is your aid. Whether knowledge of the supernatural or for you to perform them."

She laughed at me. "What says you can give me what I want? How can you get it? You're a Blackfyre yet you hide your hair in a queer getup. You're hiding your identity. That is clear for anyone with eyes to see."

"For now I'm hiding. But not for long. I'll allow you to think about it. Then I'll return. When I do, you have decision to make."

"I'll think on it, dragonspawn. One does not simply throw away an opportunity. But that doesn't mean I'll accept." She leaned forward once more, her eyes sparkling with unbidden interest. "Get me something to prove yourself first. An artefact, perhaps. One with magical connotations to your own people. Then, I may decide."

 _Silly Aegon, don't you know how RPG's work? You have to get her the quest items before you can recruit her as a follower._ Silly me for thinking differently. I stood up, thanked her for her time and left the shack where my team were waiting. They were laughing and jesting. When Leo turned to me and asked me what we talked about inside, I simply said, "Nothing important."

* * *

A/N: I may be speaking for myself, but I quite like Lyra. I know there were a few mages I could have got like red priests. But the Rhoynish have always interested me, especially with them having fought against the dragons. Guess who Aegon's preparing to fight should they come to blows.

Forgive me for any spelling and grammar mistakes. So far, Catalyst has got more than 250 followers, so I'm happy and would like to thank you to all those read this fic, followed, favourited and commented.

Comments:

JosephLeeCollins: I'm glad you enjoyed her. I agree what you said about the Rhoynar. They're not really that explored and I want to do that in this fic.

osterreicher97: I do plan on exploring Rhoynish magic within this fic so you can expect that.

TMI Fairy: In the canon, Archmaester Marwyn is one of the few maesters who's got an interest in the arcane and visited Essos where he studied with warlocks and shadowbinders. He did teach Mirri Maz Duur medicine so he's likely to have learnt magic from her as well.

Dipsyy: There will be a time skip in this fic but I don't plan on shipping Aegon and Lyra.

kail420: There will be struggle and conflict. One thing I've seen is that in SI fics, the opposition doesn't adapt and the MC can just breeze through it. I do plan to challenge the MC for struggle is what makes a story fun.

coldblue2015: Thank you for the comment and I'm glad you enjoyed Lady Lyra. I wouldn't say Aegon's special like that, only that his knowledge comes from another world which she found intriguing. But in the future, Aegon could prove to be powerful in other ways but nothing's certain at this point.


	8. Chapter 7: The First Daughter

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 7: The First Daughter**

* * *

The pile of books slammed onto the table in front of me.

"You need to look through these," Haldon said with a glint in his eyes. Sometimes I wondered if he wanted me to suffer after all I've done. "Just as you're training your body, you need to train your mind. After all, it's you who said a brain needs books like a blade needs a whetstone."

"But I feel my blade is sharp enough," I whined in a voice of a boy who's balls were yet to drop. I looked down at the cover and scoffed. "The Most Illustrious Histories of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros." Not just one, but three of the seven volumes in existence. I could tell from the title it was going to be a most riveting read. I was familiar with the maester who wrote them and he'd the most infamous reputation of droning on and on. "I've read the first two already. The ones about the Empire of the Stormlords and the unequal treaties from the four kingdoms who carved up the Riverlands." Pouting, I turned away. "I'm assuming you want me read these and not, say, bludgeon someone to death with them?"

Between all books I've read here, I much preferred Fire and Blood. Believe it or not, both the World of Ice and Fire, and Fire and Blood – both part one and two – were in-universe documents as well. I got my hands on them as soon as I could and read them every night. Jaehaerys was interesting, as was the Conqueror, but so was Aegon the Unworthy for the scandal factor. I'd done much note taking that night.

Haldon's lip curved. "Very perceptive of you. Granted, these books are perhaps enough to kill someone, but they're far too valuable for that."

"There's only value in things people want. Who'd want to read these?" One thing I couldn't deny is that these were boring reads and reading them did make me sleepy. _Maybe gift them to a person with insomnia?_

"Believe it or not, some people actually like reading about the past."

"I like reading history," I shot back defensively. "I just don't like Maester Glendon."

"He's not a most eloquent writer, I'll admit. But these books are important. They detail how everything happened. He's very comprehensive."

" _Very_ comprehensive," I mumbled. "Are there no other books at least? I'll even agree to do maths if to avoid this maester's magnum opus."

"You will read these and give me a summery, Young Griff. No avoiding this. Your training with the Golden Company has disrupted your learning."

"Oh, yes. My learning of Essosi agricultural practises," I let out, barely holding in a laugh. According to my father, the modernisation of the Pentoshi fields was a success, though a few alterations had been made without my knowledge. But seeing as I've never seen a farm in my life before being transported to Essos, I considered it a roaring success. Magister Illyrio happily wrote how his holdings had surpassed the previous yields and even began the manufacturing of more seed drills, despite being expansive and surprisingly fragile. I'd been surprised but I never doubted the capitalists of Essos would pass up a chance for more money. Illyrio especially. "Do I really need to learn it?"

"You do. You may have made an improved plough but you might as well learn more. Use it for further inspiration if you must."

 _Aegon Blackfyre, king of farmers_. I almost laughed at that, but as with that King of the Reach, I may be seen as Garth Greenhand come again. Though such a thing made me wonder if I was the only person to ever be transported here. It was an intriguing thought. "I could, but I'll much rather think about military organisation at the moment. After all, I'm trying to change the Golden Company into a more efficient fighting force."

"You're trying to reinvent the wheel. The Golden Company is already the best sellsword company."

"Sellsword company, but not standing army," I informed him with a little smirk. It would be hard but, with commanders like Myles Toyne and others aiding me, I was certain it could happen.

One of the key things I did was improve the logistics and baggage train. Every man was required to carry their armour, weapons, and fifteen days' worth of rations. To make that easier, and with the help of Haldon, I brought back those forked sticks the Roman Legions used to carry the load on their shoulders. It earned them the nickname "Griff's mules" and required less beasts of burden which improved speed of movement. The men despised the act of carrying their own things, but the commanders loved me as they rode atop horses. I was forced to walk, carrying my equipment on my back so at least my comrades-in-arms knew I stood beside them as they threw insults my way.

Not only that, but I'd began to formulate a new structure for how the new model army would operate. I would split the Golden Company down the centre into two forces of five thousand fighting men which didn't include logistical and support units like physicians and engineers. They'll be ten groups of five hundred men forming a cohort, each cohort made up of five groups of centuries numbering one hundred. That hundred would organise in ten groups of ten men who'd share a tent and cooking pot. Plagiarising from the roman legion, I confess, though I did change the exact numbers. I also needed doctrines that could be used against heavy shock cavalry. All this was being kept secret until I sorted everything out. For personal preference I didn't want people to know.

"It's an army, Aegon," Halfmaester rolled his eyes at me.

"An army under the command of a state," I explained. "One that can crush any rebellion. Not an army of mercenaries. When I get my throne, I want a professional army that is loyal only to me. I don't want men loyal to their lords. That's primitive. There needs to be a standing army loyal only to the king. A professional army like the Ghiscari legions of old. Nothing could stand against them."

"Nothing could stand against them because they were the most advanced civilisation at the time. The Valyrians were more primitive during the early wars but they had dragons. Even then, Ghiscari legions had weaknesses. That'll only reflect in yours."

 _Oh, mine is a different beast. Ghiscari legions were Philip and Alexander the Great's phalanx. Mine is Roman order and discipline, late medieval equipment with a healthy dosing of the best doctrines mankind has to offer_. If I did have dragons, I would use them like the German air force during World War Two. Use them to support my army in a blitzkrieg that would overwhelm the levies of Westeros. I knew that the organisation of the Golden Company was already greater than the forces of the Iron Throne and would be of higher quality even if they won't match for quantity. I couldn't risk the pendulum going too far, however, else whatever casualties I got would be a nightmare to replace. I needed to be pragmatic.

I smiled at my tutor. "That is why I'm researching, so I know what and what not to do. While there are problems with a fully professional army, such as costs, there are glaring weaknesses in the current feudal levy Westerosi uses. Whether the new royal army will be staffed by professionals or semi, will be a matter of debate." _How much money the treasury has will dictate that_. "Of course, I could be wrong. But we won't know that till we try? Now can we?"

...

From what I expected of Volantis, I imagined something akin to Constantinople. But what I saw couldn't even compare.

The walls were massive, made of brick and standing higher than those of Pentos. They were beautiful to behold with ornate crenellations sculpted to look like beasts and standing atop them were guardsmen watching our column. Those very walls, Gorys Edoryen said, were strong enough to throw back dozens of invasions whether from ambitious neighbours or Dothraki Khalasars. Even with the walls, a large portion of the city was built outside for those of trades like tanners and dyers. Poorer folk lived in shacks, too poor to afford the houses inside and lacking the misfortune to be slaves who were sheltered by their masters.

The gates were barred for us so we needed to wait outside until they opened where a highborn member of the Old Blood approached riding an elephant with gilded tusks and draped in silk. He towered above us, sitting in a luxurious howdah. Behind him marched a column of soldiers with green tiger stripes tattooed across their cheeks. The guards wore polished helmets shaped in the likeness of tigers and mail shirts fashioned with scales; as well as spears and shields and steel claws jutting from their gauntlets. Septa Lemore said many of the tiger cloaks who protected the Old Blood were Unsullied. The Old Blood stood his ground just before the gates and sent a slave demanding the officers of the Golden Company approach. The officers were annoyed but Myles Toyne, Ser Harry Strickland and Lysono Maar proceeded forward and unarmed should they insult the noble's sensibilities. In Volantis it was a most dangerous felony to bare steel against the Old Blood. They talked and the officers returned, irritated we needed to withdraw from the city and make camp further up the river. The Old Blood didn't like the idea of an army camping outside their walls, even if it was an army they hired.

Grudgingly we did so. We marched back up the road and made camp in a town next to the River Rhoyne. Many of the men lost themselves to drink, while the officers took the night in a cluster of small brothels that were surprised to learn they were catering to sellswords when they usually satisfied merchants and fishermen.

I didn't get to enjoy that, but nor would I have wanted to. Instead I helped build the camp, dig ditches and sharpen stakes. My hands were calloused, not the softer features of the boy I once was. During my time in the Golden Company, my body had changed. Young Griff had a body that was naturally lithe and didn't really bulk up as others did. But I had grown stronger and more graceful. I wondered how it was going to change with puberty though . . . _should be interesting_ . . .

When the ditches were dug and the stakes planted, I sat on a slope away from everyone else with a harp in my hands and a parchment of notes to the side. I ran my fingers along the strings, listening to the soothing sound they made. I tried – key word is tried – to play 'I vow to Thee, My Country.' I didn't sing the words, though I certainly hummed them and tried to imagine a whole orchestra. While I very much retained my accent, my voice was different and, I'll give Young Griff this, his voice was the kind that could work a tune.

"Playing that again?" Septa Lemore asked, having sneaked beside me. I stopped and looked up at the septa wearing a pure white garb that made her look half a saint. Her handsome features added to that, making her look wise and thoughtful. "One of the songs Illyrio's musician taught you?"

I shook my head and she sat down beside me. Lemore removed her sandals and her feet brushed the grass that whistled with grasshoppers.

"I invented it," I lied. It felt like I did as I tried to remember all the words and how the notes played out. Transcribing a song from faltering memory was hard. I was even sure I got wrong a few bits that just didn't sound right. I gave an artless shrug. "The tune came to me while drawing. I whistled it to myself just like now, then decided to write it down. I like it."

"Aegon the Troubadour," she said warmly and I couldn't help but smile. Septa Lemore did have a nice and soothing voice. It felt like I could say anything to her . . . almost anything. "If not for being a black dragon, I'd have said it came from Rhaegar's blood. He was a most talented musician, I've heard and his wife . . . the Princess Elia of Dorne . . . loved music." A shadow crossed her face for the briefest of moments.

I averted my gaze and looked across the river. "How do you feel about me being a Blackfyre?"

"You are what you are. No one chooses who they're born to. You're innocent of the plots that have you as a piece. I will stand by your side until you decide you have no need of me."

 _I'm not innocent of the plots I'm putting into place_. "So you'll be here for a while then," I smiled, an expression she returned. "So about Aegon the Troubadour . . . do you think I should compose a marching song for the Company to march to? With drums?" _It would help set a marching pace. Maybe even a dedicated drummer corps._ That was an idea.

Septa Lemore laughed, patting me on the knee. "So many new ideas, young one. Don't overdo it."

"But I have so many ideas," I whined. There were so many things I could do, what I should and need to do, but unable. It was frustrating. They saw me as a boy . . . if a somewhat wise one. Granted, I may not be the most well-versed, but my ideas would work. "Not only that, I want to excel, I want everything to excel. There is not enough time in the world to do all that I want to do!" _Not with the Westerosi civil war going to happen in the future, anyhow_. That wasn't to mention the birth of the dragons and the Other invasion . . .

Speaking of the Others, I didn't know how I was going to deal with them. Honestly, I was kicking myself for passing over that section of the books. I didn't enjoy that storyline or anything relating to Sam Tarly or Jonny Snow so I skipped those chapters. The only bit at the Wall I did read was solely for Stannis the Mannis. It was just that I found Jon's chapters dreadfully dull. His character and plotline never interested me. _The greatest mistake I've made, it seems_. Such a mistake left me completely blind of everything going on up north. It put me in kind of a disadvantage when my entire strategy was based around knowing what others were going to do.

I supposed it wouldn't be that hard. I mean, the Others could only be a minor thing, right? The story, after all, was about the intrigue and the War of the Five Kings and the destruction it left behind. That was why the Wall had such a minor part and was separated from the rest of the story. As such, the south was my objective and would get my focus, not the North. It was very likely I didn't even need to get involved there and that would do for me. The North and the Starks would fight their own battles.

...

To great fanfare we paraded through the city gates.

If there was one thing that could never be forgotten about the Volantis, it was the stench. The air was heavy with heat shimmering lazily before me and the cobblestone was hot enough to be felt through my sandals. Such heat easily sapped one's strength. Only a thousand men of the Golden Company were allowed inside for a parade that included a number of tiger cloaks. The rest of the Company remained outside on the off chance we decide to do a Daenerys. Even though Volantis hired our services, the Triachs didn't trust us despite being the most respectable sellsword company in the business.

 _Give them points for caution at least. Makes them smarter than the Kind Masters_.

Cheering us were people lining the broad avenues, all in awe at the sight of us. Many leaned out windows, looked down from balconies and parents stood with children atop their shoulders. There were slaves – as judged by the tattoos on their faces – and freemen. Faces of a hundred different races that called Volantis home, whether willingly or not. It was a worthy enough spectacle. No doubt Myles Toyne wanted a splendid parade and the polished lances of knights and cataphracts served perfectly. The shining mail and beautiful mounts made a stirring enough image that may encourage more recruits to sign up. One could never underestimate the value of propaganda.

We marched past guildhalls, markets and bathhouses, statues and fountains in the forms of beasts and men standing alone in vast empty plazas. There were aqueducts supplying fresh water, arenas and triumphal arches that looked so roman if not for the constant imagery of dragons on each and every one of them. Speaking of dragons, the sheer amount made it look like the Free City of Volantis had a greater fetish for them than the Targaryens, which was saying something. There were shops and winesinks, lodges and cyvasse parlours where men played and sipped wine as slaves waited on them hand and feet. Trees of palm and cedar lined the straight cobbled road and monuments stood at every junction. Many statues, I noted, lacked heads. Said statues also happened to all be politicians of the militant tiger faction who never regained power since the Century of Blood. They still stood tall and imposing despite having been decapitated like French royalty.

"So this is Mother Volantis, the first daughter of Valyria," Damon mused, wrinkling his nose. "This place smells of shit and old whores."

"This is the new city. The old city smells of fresh whores and costly perfume," one of the older sellswords said, an amber-skinned brute from Slaver's Bay. His cheek was a monstrous ruin from where he'd burnt his slave mark off. "But underneath the perfume it's just as bad, if not worse."

Marching south along the river, the streets grew smaller and meaner. The once lush and tall trees shrank while the stone roads turned to packed dirt. _So this is the true Volantis: the First Daughter of Valyria, the Mistress of the Summer Sea, Queen of the Rhoyne, the home of noble lords and lovely ladies of purest blood_. There were roaming packs of naked children and stray dogs that stole whatever they could get their maws on. At the front of shops stood Bravos with puffed up clothing and swords on their hips. Slaves in rags and bent backs busily cleaned up all the refuge littering the ground, the lot of them scurrying like cockroaches. _Glorious Volantis, the most powerful and populous of the Free Cities, with boundless wealth and endless power_. Never mind the squalor and depopulation where parts of the city sunk into the ground, where old buildings were left crumbling, unowned and unwanted. _Beautiful Volantis, city of fountains and flowers. The centre of the high arts_. Never mind that many canals, fountains and drinking wells were dry, pools stagnant and cracked, public bathhouses left abandoned. Vines crept up the sides of buildings, latching onto to every crook and cranny in the walls and pavement. And, in abandoned shops and temples, young trees were bursting through.

On the Long Bridge we were forced to halt thanks to massive congestion. The city watch tried to push forward but the agitated crowd was resilient. Such traffic allowed me to look at the surroundings. The gateway was black stone, a massive arch carved with sphinxes, manticores, dragons, women with dragon wings and stranger creatures I couldn't see any similarities to earth mythology. Like the bridge of London before it burnt down, the Long Bridge had buildings in the forms of shops, temples, taverns and inns, brothels and gaming parlours. Midway through, I paused. Proudly on display were the remains of thieves and cutpurses, rapists and slaves who raised a hand against their masters. They hung from the battlements, their bodies reduced to bloody strips of fresh from where they'd been flayed. Their eyes had been gouged out and leaving only two bloody holes. Whenever the birds rested to feast, the spearmen underneath jabbed the bodies with long spears and sent the birds flying. The carrion birds returned shortly thereafter. Honestly, by this point I was quite desensitised to nearly everything. I was more apathetic than horrified. Being an avid fan of history, I heard much about ancient torture and execution but it was one thing to read about it, another thing to see it in the flesh. I supposed I should be disturbed, both at myself and the others who all ignored it, but I really wasn't. After all, over here, execution and public torture was a spectacle you brought your children to for some family fun.

Eventually we exited the Long Gate and entered Old Volantis which, honestly, looked much nicer. Much of eastern Volantis was manses and palaces for the city's rich and powerful. The stone streets were wide and lined with palm trees. Common were the sights of dwarf elephants, carriages, palanquins and chariots. The manses got larger and grander the closer they got the Black Walls where only those with an unbroken line to Old Valyria resided. _A group of people who proclaim themselves racially superior to others they see as lesser_. Where did I ever hear that before? Though it did make me wonder how many of the Old Blood actually _looked_ Valyrian. Well, there was only way to find out and the question would be answered shortly.

With the upcoming elections, many of the inns and brothels were crowded. Sex slaves leaned out the windows, waving people inside and freely showing their nakedness. The grandest of public buildings could rival the architecture of earth's cities and put them to shame. Tall and imposing, they projected strength to the poor and downtrodden. Those who could afford to wouldn't dare touch the ground, instead they rode palanquins, litters and ornate carts pulled by dwarf elephants. Speaking of elephants, there were so many of them. One great grey behemoth wore embroidered silk, with a tower on its back crammed full of naked slave girls flaunting their bodies and calling to anyone who looked wealthy. I gaped at the sight, as did many others. A few sellswords whooped and Damon made a jest when one blew a kiss in our direction. _There goes Aegon's virgin eyes_. I would have loved to see Joncon's face. Griff very much desired to protect my 'innocence,' because, apparently, watching people get murdered is acceptable, but not female nipples. _Priorities am I right?_

Despite being invited, the Unsullied tiger cloaks guarding the entrance were hesitant to let in any more than the bare minimum. After all, they didn't want to pollute the interior with foreigners. Blackheart accepted, taking Jon, Homeless Harry and myself. I was surprised and, when I approached, the captain-general winked. Everyone else needed to remain outside, though they were charitably given lodgings in the barracks. My companions weren't happy about being left behind, but I promised them a story of what it looked like inside and that seemed to pacify them. The guards took our weapons and we were escorted inside. The tunnel, with its three portcullises, was like entering the maw of a monster. The passage was lined with dragons and other monstrosities made of the same black stone as the walls. Defending the passage were murder holes in the walls and the ceiling where boiling liquids would be dropped on those foolish enough to try and take the Black Walls by storm. It was long and arched, large enough for even the largest elephants to pass through with plenty of room to spare.

Inside the Black Walls was something else. It was like staring at the closest thing to a utopia this world allowed.

While I thought the palaces outside were impressive, the ones before me put everything else to shame. Golden domes topped each building, with stained glass windows and wide open streets clean of dirt thanks to a complex series of sewers and plumbing keeping the filth at bay. Around each palace were large spaced gardens full of brightly coloured flowers which, Harry told me, had once been common in the Land of the Long Summer before the Doom. Contrast to outside, the air smelled sweet and spicy. Those who called the Black Walls home rode atop litters and reclined in open spaces debating. All with hair of silver, platinum and gold, with eyes of various shades of blue and purple. All happy and completely without worry, laughing and peaceful in the confines of the Black Walls. It was quiet. A city isolated from the outside world. A paradise built on the backs of those enslaved in the shackles of service.

The greatest building was the Assembly itself; the ancient citadel where the Valyrian garrison had once been stationed. Now it was the political centre of Volantis – a massive black tower of fused stone with an opened topped tower decorated with endless statues. The most imposing thing my eyes had ever seen.

"Wow," I couldn't help myself as I stared. _When I thought this world couldn't impress me any further, it proves me wrong_. I didn't like it when that happened.

Myles Toyne smiled. "Impressed, lad? I should think so. This is what your ancestors created from ages past. What your people achieved."

 _They're not my people. My people forged the greatest empire the world had ever known. My people destroyed the slave trade_. My people did horrible things as well, that went without saying, but they did great things as well. Valyria may have been Aegon's culture, but it wasn't mine. I could have said that, but instead I said, "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"A harsh beauty," Jon Connington said. Even he was impressed.

"Indeed," agreed Harry. "What could you expect when this was built by the Freehold? The political centre of the most powerful military on the continent and a city with endless wealth. Inside are our future employers and possible future allies. You'll see how you speak with those who consider themselves your superiors. Maybe you'll learn something."

Being escorted inside by a slave, we were met with massive black doors banded with gold twisted and shaped into dragons crusted with precious stones. The inside was an expansive empty space. The floors were white marble floor tiles veined with blue ripples and standing in the centre was a massive naked woman with a sword raised above her head and a pair of dragon wings sprouting from her back. In small alcoves were the statues of the previous Triachs who once served as the three leaders of the city. The ceiling was a massive dome with glass that were perfectly arranged to angle the light down onto each of the statues and coat them in an ethereal glow.

If the outside failed to impress visitors, this would certainly do the job.

The slave girl turned to us and said we needed to prepare for the audience and look presentable by putting on fresh cloches and bathe, which Myles smirked and jested when we were escorted to a large room with a sprawling pool of cloudy green water. Without missing a beat, Toyne stripped from his garb and climbed inside. His form was darkly-tanned and well-built despite his smaller size. Jon couldn't help but let his eyes linger for a moment before removing his own garbs, with Harry following more cautiously after. They didn't care. Not that I expected different. It was a common thing to see the Golden Company strip naked when they bathed. I was well-versed in the sights at this point.

Whilst bathing and talking on how to best deal with the Triachs, Homeless Harry turned to me, "Boy, I'd suggest you remove that dye from your hair. The Triachs don't have a high regard for the Tyroshi, not after they helped cause the collapse of their empire. Not to mention hiding your Valyrian heritage is akin to blasphemy here."

"O-of course," I responded awkwardly. "I'll do so." It'd be strange seeing my silver-hair again. I was used to dying it despite my hatred for it at first. "Please excuse me."

Being escorted away, the slave girl poured a viral of cloudy liquid in a bronze basin half full of water. Taking a sniff, I choked. Looking at what looked like an apology in her eyes, I was asked to take a seat in the centre of the circular tub, the slave scrubbed my hair until the water in the basin was dark. Taking one of the curls dangling between my eyes, I saw it was fair once more. I guess I should feel satisfied my true hair colour was no longer hidden, but before we returned to the column I would need another coat of dye applied to keep up the image. Looking into a polished sliver mirror, I couldn't help but smile ever-so-slightly. Ok, I'm a bit vain. I won't deny it, nor would I deny I cut a striking image that promised to be even more striking when I reached maturity.

 _Hopefully Illyrio's fat because he's gorging on food like there's no tomorrow, not because of some inheritable medical condition . . ._

Biting the inside of my cheek, I glimpsed the slave girl stare. When she realised I knew she was looking, she averted her gaze, spoke some words and soon I was back in the massive room with the equally large bath.

It was later when we were sent to another series of rooms and given clothes. Of course, in the style of Volantis, we couldn't dress ourselves because the idea of doing anything for one's self was a sign of poverty. _Maybe they ask their slaves to fuck their wives for them as well_ , I thought dryly. I was given a set of clothes to choose from but, like any deeply involved pair of parents, Myles Toyne and Jon Connington got into a bitter argument and chose for me. When everything was done, I wore high-heeled riding boots of gilded leather, a black lambswool tunic, but no trousers for that was a sign of barbarians. I had a studded leather belt and otherwise looked quite ordinary, like a servant who wasn't meant to be noticed. As long as I didn't do the talking, that was fine with me.

Finally ready, we entered the audience chamber. Inside was raised dais of black marble that wrapped around the room. On one flank was a massive golden elephant encrusted with precious stones; on the other was a tiger rearing on its rear legs and staring directly at me. Sitting before them were the three leaders, old men with silver-hair and purple-eyes, one thin and holding himself up fairly well, though the other two were slumping and potbellied. They sat in gilded thrones carried by slaves. They must have been a weight to carry, but I doubted those being carried really cared all that much.

"Hail to the glorious Triachs of Volantis," cried a young boy with a high pitch voice. "The First Daughter of Valyria, her heir and the rightful lords of the Freehold and the civilised world."

All three men looked at us like we were vermin or a bug to be crushed beneath their boots. I knew it was going to be frustrating. Standing with my chin held high, I took a deep breath and pondered how much I'd rather be waiting in the heat outside.

They talked business for the next few hours.

Malaquo Maegyr, the tiger and commander-in-chief of the Volantene military was as ancient as he was stubborn. His skin was grey, hair even greyer and he also had no teeth – probably due to all the sugar Volantenes had in their diet. The man also didn't like the idea of hiring sellswords to assist the city watch for Malaquo believed the tiger cloaks could stand on their own despite the quite distressing reports of riots happening in the poorer parts of the city. Games were common this time of year, either fighting pits or chariot racing which was all well and good except when the losing side let out their anger on the city and those around them. The chariot racing was especially political and many times the army had to be called in to enforce martial law.

The other two were both elephants by the names of Doniphos Paenymion and Nyessos Vhassar. Both were silver-haired and purple-eyed men, plump and soft as they sat atop thrones fashioned after the tusked beasts they loved so much. While they were the ones who specifically asked for the Golden Company, they were prickly when it came to prices. The Golden Company would be used to augment the city watch – primarily in the poorer regions – until the elections were over. It wasn't that hard of a contract. The Golden Company had done similar in the past. Man the walls, send men out to patrol the streets, hang any slaves who decide to take advantage of the chaos. I mostly just watched as Myles Toyne, Harry and the three Triachs argued over price. Despite having agreed beforehand, the two elephants and tiger decided they weren't happy and wanted the costs lowered. That took the greater part of an hour before all parties were barely satisfied. As Harry said afterwards, "A deal that satisfies no one is, at its heart, the best."

With the negotiations done, we were given free reign of the inner city during the time we were in their employ. A privilege reserved only for the highest officials of the Golden Company. It had been one of the things Myles asked for, which initially made them grimace before accepting. The Triachs didn't like the idea of non-Valyrians walking their precious roads, but it was clear that the captain-general desired something from them. He'd been pretty adamant when it came to that.

"And what may that be?" I asked him, my question as subtle as an earthquake. "The reason for letting me wander the Black Walls?"

He looked over at me, then laughed. "The sights, the beauty," he answered when a group of guards walked past, looking at us with harsh eyes. "Oh, and some answers. I know of you and your lust for knowledge. I also know you visited a certain mage."

I stopped in my tracks. "Excuse me?" _Who ratted us out?_

Myles Toyne's charred lips fought back a grin. "I'm no fool. I know who leaves and enters the camp, like you and your merry band leaving to go to a Rhoynish witch. Why? What for?"

"They encouraged me to do so," I said, the words slowly leaving my mouth. "They said she could see the future . . . I wanted her help."

"Help?" It was Jon who asked. "Why would you need help?"

I shrugged my shoulders and looked down at my sandals, fidgeting slightly. "I get these strange dreams on occasion. Of dragons mostly." _Dragon dreams_. It was a lie. I didn't have those sorts of dreams, but it could be used to justify my knowledge of things going on around me and the future.

Myles Toyne took my chin and rose it tenderly so I was looking at him. "What are these dreams, lad?"

"I . . . I had a few. Once I saw five beasts fighting near the corpse of a stag with a crown atop it's head. There was a lion, a wolf, a squid and two lesser stags – a young one yet to gain its antlers and another. The stags duelled while the lions and wolves lashed out against each other. I went to the mage to see if she could understand."

The three officers were silent. Swallowing, Joncon answered. "I heard of these. Dragon dreams," he looked at the others awkwardly. "The Targaryens had them. They said they foresee the future. They said Daenys the Dreamer foresaw the Doom of Valyria, and others."

"Daemon Blackfyre as well. The second one," Myles muttered. "Bittersteel refused to aid him when the lad claimed a dragon would hatch at Whitewalls. If what you're saying is true, you may have it."

"I think so. But what does that mean for us . . . for me?" I blinked a few times and looked down, making myself look innocent and unknowing.

Affectionately, Myles put a hand on my shoulder, giving me a gentle squeeze. "Nothing if you want it to. But it may prove useful."

"I would like her to join us."

"Who's her?" Harry asked, narrowing his eyes.

"The mage. She's very knowledgeable. I think she'd be useful." _Especially once the dragons return_. Or, in a worst case scenario, should I find myself in a dragon's arms race against Daenerys Targaryen. Someone like Lyra would be essential. She knew blood magic and, like Mirri, had been taught by Marwyn.

"Magic doesn't exist." Harry rolled his eyes.

 _It does. It'll return_. "That was another one of my dreams . . . I saw an egg hatch. Three of them. Silver and black and green. They cracked and dragons flew out. Then they danced."

"That sounds like you made it up on the spot," Harry grumbled, folding his arms.

 _Only because I did_. "Maybe." I smiled impishly and Toyne chuckled.

The captain-general slapped his paymaster on the shoulder. "Let the lad have a bit of fun. I don't care who joins the Company unless they prove themselves a burden." He then angled his head. "Is she comely?"

"What?"

"Is she fair to look upon?"

". . . Ish?" I didn't know how to respond to that. Lyra was attractive in a way but that wasn't the point. "But that's not why. I want her for her wits and knowledge. The Rhoynar were good with magic as can be seen in their histories. They used the power of the wind and rivers. I think it could be useful seeing as we need to sail across the Narrow Sea . . ."

"Sounds like a yes to me," Blackheart grinned. "You're a growing lad."

"Magic is little more than illusions," Jon warned me. "If she demanded money, you're a fool. All mages are mummers and scammers."

"No. She didn't want money. She wants knowledge. She wants to know how the world works. Like me." _If I could get some books from these libraries, the magic of the Freehold as well as some things like glass candles, I can get her on my side_. She was like Qyburn and couldn't resist tapping into the unknown. She said it herself. _"To gain knowledge – true knowledge of the world and how it works – one must brave the tides."_

I needed to brave the tides.

Myles Toyne looked at me deeply. "I know you're a boy, not a man, but I trust you in this. However, if you make an error in judgement, I won't come to your aid. I won't pick you up should you fall. Is that understood?"

"Understood."

* * *

A/N: I know what some of you may be thinking. How can Aegon be so stupid and ignore the Others/White Walkers/Magical Ice Elves? Well, the reason I made him ignorant of the Others and everything going on at the Wall was to ensure he didn't know everything going on. One of the greatest tool's Aegon has is foresight: knowing what the characters would do as well as making accurate guesses on how they'd react on various circumstances. That'll make it too easy and create a power imbalance that'd suck the tension out of the story. Also I think Aegon being more antagonistic to Jonny boy would be more entertaining and present more possibilities than being instant friends with all the most popular characters. I do have plans for Jon Snow that will not follow canon, just so you know.

With that little speech out the way, Catalyst has more than 300 people following and 225 favourites so I'd like to thank everyone who's done so and commented. This chapter took a few rewrites to do, hence the delays, but I hoped you enjoyed it.

Comments:

TMI Fairy: Maybe Aegon did read the wrong fanfiction : ) You're right about the limits of what he's capable of. From what I know, the conflicts between the Romans and Persians was largely a stalemate with victories and defeats on both sides. Spears are a most underrated weapon.

Dzerx: The dragons are going to appear. But a dragon can only have one rider so I don't think either one getting more dragons would matter at the end of the day.

Blinded in a bolthole: A very unwise decision on Aegon's part and one that's seriously going to cost him. I liked the fact he was worried and then swiftly went into denial of the Others having any relevance to deflect the blame from himself. Aegon hates being wrong. I agree with what you wrote. During my first read through, I did skip Jon Snow's chapters. I found him especially dull in the beginning and the events up north didn't really interest me until Dance. Hopefully there's a few entertaining shenanigans in Volantis.

osterreicher97: Seeing as Valyrian colouring isn't that rare in Essos, where even the smallfolk have silver-hair and purple-eyes in cities like Lys for example, so it wouldn't be hard to imagine the Old bloods would isolate themselves and interbreed with only those they consider to have proper breeding and Valyrian features. I agree with what you said about Jon Snow. The North plot and geographically the Wall is quite isolated so it would be hard to deal with it even if Aegon knew and cared. Aegon does know a little politics of the North and would certainly have learnt more since arriving in Westeros thanks to Haldon, but the information from Jon's chapters is something Aegon lacks. Lyra will be joining Aegon and the rest of them. I wanted her to basically be the anti-Melisandre who treats magic more like a science which can be studied and improved upon. The fact she knows who Aegon is also means she should be watched. A Daenerys and Aegon pairing is certainly on the table. Such a union would unite the Targaryen and Blackfyre branches of the family tree and increase potential support of both parties involved. Despite being enemies, the Targs and Blackfyres are on the same boat now.


	9. Chapter 8: The Black Library

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 8: The Black Library**

* * *

It was sunset when we patrolled the Volantene streets decorated with paper lanterns coating everything orange. Ser Rolly led the way, riding on a horse while me and Serpent Squad waddled after him afoot like a troupe of ducklings.

We halted at the crossroads. Nothing looked out the ordinary. The alleys were empty and the new city was a maze of ramshackle and double-storied homes built of mudbrick that pressed against each other like drunks during a night of drinking. Many had been reinforced with scaffolding and had external stairs leading up to where houses had been stacked one atop another. In Volantis, one could only build up.

I didn't want to be here. None of us did. But we were soldiers and we had a job to do.

Despite pretending to be Jon Connington's treasured son and being groomed by Myles Toyne for an obvious officer position, I still had duties to my comrades-in-arms and, likely due to our greenness and needing to prove our worth, we were assigned to patrol the poorer parts of Volantis. It was little more than a cesspit - literally in some places - and populated by undesirables and outcasts. Many of the buildings were winesinks and brothels, drug dens and gambling houses all built inside what one would call a shanty town if you were feeling particularly generous. It was also where most of the riots happened as well as having the highest deployment of sellswords. Near exclusively sellswords. The tiger cloaks had been redeployed to the more prosperous areas, damn them.

"Whore Street," Mallor grumbled. "Has there been a more disgusting place?"

"You act like you never visited," Leo remarked cheerfully, looking over his shoulder and smiling with false innocence.

"Not these ones," the Dornishboy played along. "The harridans here are all filthy with every disease the demons of the sixth hell have dredged up."

"And how would you know that?" Symeon asked with mocking in his shrill voice.

While I ignored another round of their bickering, I turned my mind to other things, like making sure no one was committing crime. Surprisingly it was empty with no vagrants sleeping drunkenly in the shadows or even beggars. During the day, the area was full of women in various stages of undress and urging forward clients. All the shops – or lack thereof – were closed and boarded. There was no movement. No danger.

"Keep your wits about you, lads," Duck warned us, riding atop a horse because he was a knight. "Something's not right here."

Jon snorted. "Aye, something's wrong. No pimps nor drunks. Nor is there a slut in sight. No cutpurses nor cutthroats either. Makes you think the whole city just buggered off."

I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic. Sometimes it was hard to tell. "It's quiet, I can say that much," I said softly. "Do you think this is out the ordinary, ser?"

"Slightly. This area should be busier. But mayhap's the rabble's too drunk with the festivities."

That, too, could be the answer. Yesterday had been spent keeping an eye on the crowds during a chariot race. There were four teams: the Greens, Whites, Blues and Reds. Each side had three chariots and the race themselves was like a game of thrones in themselves as teams collaborated and back-stabbed each other. Their clothing and hair was colour-coded to their faction and the games were so politically driven that it promised at least one fight would break out. While we stood on patrol and acted quickly to weed out any troublemakers, the Golden Company officers watched the games in plush seating while gorging themselves and making bets. Jon Connington wanted me to be with them – likely so I was in his sights – but Myles Toyne refused. He did keep more than a few veteran guards around me, however; not always in sight but always close enough to respond quickly should the need arise.

It hadn't been that bad. I was expecting worse. Only once did the crowds grow restless and, besides a scuffle between the Greens and Reds, not much happened. That was perhaps a good thing for if the crowd exploded into a riot, I was sure Myles would drag me out swinging his sword and killing everyone in the way. While he was a sink or swim tutor for the most part, he knew how valuable I was as the last Blackfyre. Despite many in the Golden Company being apathetic to the Blackfyre cause after many decades of failures, the Golden Company was still a Blackfyre organisation with oaths sworn to sit a black dragon on the Iron Throne. Me dying would be the final defeat for them. I was the last chance for themselves and their houses.

Of course, whether a black dragon would sit the Iron Throne was a matter of debate. While I had plans to take Westeros, I could decide to instead do an Alexander the Great and conquer the Free Cities, uniting them into one great empire where I'd declare myself emperor. I smiled at the thought. Emperor did sound so much better than king. _Emperor Aegon Blackfyre, the Black Dragon of the East_. I liked the sound of that. _Go against the story I was put into and make something of myself independently_. No Westeros and no game of thrones. I was a nice idea, but I doubted it would happen. Because of my circumstances, my fate was decided for me. There was far too much pressure to place me on the Iron Throne.

I grimaced.

The streets grew darker and colder. Contrasting the radiant heat of day, the nights were freezing. The fact my garbs were thin did nothing to help matters. As we made a last lap, we met another squad of Company members alongside some tiger cloaks with green tattoos painted under their eyes. Duck politely greeted the man who approached us.

"Greetings," the sergeant said. He had dark olive-skin and black hair tied into braids. His black breastplate was carved with elaborate details and he wore two golden torcs around his arms. "You lot heading back to the barracks?" When Rolly said he was, the man shook his head. "You can't. You're needed on the waterfront. There's been a murder."

"Someone's always murdering another. Why's this different?"

"Because this bumbling fool was a politician. A member of the tiger faction. Political assassination most likely. The city watch want us to aid them in sealing the area and retain witnesses. They don't trust their own people to do it. Everyone in this infernal city is paid to work against the other half. A time when sellswords are the most trust worthy individuals." He laughed. "That's why we're here."

"If needs be. Is there anyone else there?"

"Some watchmen under the command of an officer. We're in charge of investigating though."

Rolly nodded and we all trailed behind. While everyone kept our silence, it was clear Serpent Squad hated it. We were all tired and annoyed, but none of us argued for it was not our place, not in this world. With haste we made it to the waterfront which was a forest of masts where ships bobbed up and down in the pitch-black sea. It was a deep harbour and ideally placed for ships. The local's claimed it could fit all the hundred isles of Braavos and still have room to spare. It certainly looked like it from what I'd seen so far.

Meeting us was a small group of slave guards, huddled together, rubbing their hands and talking amongst themselves in quiet voices. Their officer saw us and approached. He was a massive man, with the shoulders of an ox and scars crisscrossing his shiny bald head. "What your business here?" I believed he said, though his voice was so gruff I had difficulty understanding. When Rolly explained, the man rolled his eyes. "Fool of blue blood. Low noble. The whores were offering special favours." I couldn't make out the rest of what he said. Rolly didn't seem to have the problem and told us to watch the streets and clear the brothel out.

To call it a brothel would be disingenuous. It was more a collection of rooms with beds harder than the streets outside. The paint was crackled, the furniture old and the carpets soiled. The owner of the establishment was as ugly as she was crude, with a wild unbrushed mess of red hair streaked with white and a face so covered with thickly layered cosmetics it turned her wrinkled features into a parody of youth. She had lost half her teeth and what remained were brown and rotting and jutting out of greyish gums. Now that, my dear friends, was why I brushed my teeth – near religiously Leo claimed. I didn't want to face the primitive dental care, nor did I want to have my mouth look like one of those magazines one would find at a dentist's waiting room. Even her clothes were ugly, the silken shawl was stained with sweat, wine and other substances I didn't dare think of.

Rolly grimaced at the sight; we all did. "Qarro, bind this harlot. Jon and Mallor, you two rouse the girls and boy whores and everyone else inside. Drag them out if you must and beat them if they resist."

We stripped the buildings of all potential threats and arrested the occupants. Thankfully it was small and there weren't that many people. Three more women were dragged into the street from where they'd been chained to the beds, as well as a large soft-faced eunuch with pegged teeth. He struggled but both Qarro and Leo threw shackles around his wrists and tied him to the wall. The eunuch struggled in vain until Symeon pressed a sword to his throat.

When that was done, we needed to collect information of the crime, so we knocked on doors if not break through them, and then asked questions. Soon we had all the information we could interrogate out of everyone and the noble's body was wrapped up and moved away, hidden so no one would see it. Just as well for it had been ravaged brutal in the victim's struggle. With that came more city watch alongside an armoured carriage made for transporting criminals.

From what we were told later, the victim wasn't the most prominent member of the Tigers, but the death of a highborn warranted attention, especially during election year. So, of course, conspiracy theories ran rampart. It just couldn't be down to coincidence, it had to be murder. Well, the torturers would be interrogating witnesses soon enough, I was sure. And honestly, my knowledge of antiquity and medieval torture devices left much to the imagination. If anything, I think my knowledge of primitive torture was much more imaginative than Volantis could even dream of. I haven't seen it in the books where people are roasted alive in a brazen bull or the Ironborn performing a blood eagle for instance. _Makes you think ancient earth was full of sadists . . ._ which, to be honest, might have been the case. _Note to self, don't give Joffrey and Ramsey advice else you may be the first victim of their newest creation_.

If there's one thing to say about my time so far, it hadn't been dull.

...

The murder of a highborn did indeed disrupt the Volantene elections. As could be expected in such a tense climate, various candidates pointed fingers and accused each other of being involved in the ordeal. The public grew restless and fights occurred throughout the city between supporters. Portions of Volantis – usually the poor areas – were set aflame and looted of the little they had. Outside one minor red temple had been a bloodbath where a group of tiger supporters pulled out swords and began killing a group of slaves owned by the elephants. More slaves rushed forward, attacking the tigers with whatever they could get their hands on. The tide turned and they chased after the attackers. We brought an end to the fighting with a cavalry charge, killing ten slaves and sending the rest into flight.

Throughout my time, we'd only been in a handful of fights but the various skirmishes were growing in intensity. Due to Joncon's objections, as well as those from Septa Lemore, I was pulled from front-line duty. While Myles claimed I should research in the Black Walls, the real reason was that he didn't want me to be at risk in the increasing tension. A few sellswords of the Golden Company had been found dead in various winesinks and brothels, all having their necks slit. As such, everyone was under heightened awareness. The rest of Serpent Squad didn't like the fact I'd left them, despite Myles Toyne saying to them directly that I was serving him during our time in Volantis. From the way they looked at me, it was clear they thought I was abandoning them. In a way, I was flattered they cared enough. Either that, or they thought I was being hidden away because my fake father was overprotective and used his influence from sleeping with the captain-general – which was true. Blackfyre or no, Connington saw me as his son.

While my comrades spent their time in the heat and dust of New Volantis, I had to make do in the cool of the ancient library that had more than enough ancient books to fill the appetite of any bookworm. How could it not? There were books and scrolls dating back to even before the Doom of Valyria; ancient manuscripts of magic, lost technology, and of histories long since forgotten. While I didn't find anything about Valyrian Steel, what I had find gave me an idea on how dragonstone was created. It was like concrete using a special volcanic ash but needed a blood sacrifice to add to the strength. My theory was that adding blood caused a chemical reaction which created crystals within the mortar in a similar way as its roman equivalent. That did make me wonder how much of this so-called magical technology was just simply chemistry.

It was a shame to say that all this was forbidden to leave the walls of the library or be even seen by one who wasn't of the Old Blood. I was lucky enough that the slaves taking care of everything thought I was a noble thanks to my silver-hair and Valyrian features. So most ignored my presence as I went through everything with Haldon (everyone thought he was my Westerosi slave). It was good that the area was mostly empty besides a few slaves so I had the place to myself . . . and one other person.

The guy's name was Vaquo Volnyros, a lesser son of a minor branch of a prominent Old Blood house. A branch – an old man claimed – that really needed to be cut. He was a plump young man with two chins, reddened cheeks, narrow pale-blue eyes and hair like freshly laid snow. Vaquo was older than me. Perhaps late teens or early twenties, though it was hard to tell. Despite his darker-than-average complexion, he was obviously Valyrian. Every morning I would find him in the same corner, eyes blood red from staring at the pile of books before him. Many times I found myself wondering if he ever left the spot.

Upon seeing him, and discovering what he read, we did engage in conversation a few times, though he did ignore me if given the choice. I'd been looking for ancient manuscripts for technology dating back to the Century of Blood and how siege engines functioned. While I knew how they worked, it didn't mean I could recreate them without a blueprint. One day, I discovered him sprawling over a pile of parchments, drawing diagrams and reading from ancient scrolls. While more of a hobbyist who claimed to have experimented with making things, Vaquo was the closest thing to a proper engineer I've found so far. Because of this, I convinced the Volantene to examine my own designs. Things like peer reviews would help me get feedback after all. While I had Haldon look at it, I couldn't find anyone else for the Golden Company outsourced engineers whenever they were needed and the field wasn't as respected as trade (in Essos) or warfare (in Westeros). The fat-cheeked man looked over at it and, for a brief moment, looked impressed.

"You created this?" He stared down at the blueprints of the seed drill. It was around the fourth or fifth draft. The previous ones I'd burnt after Haldon picked up some errors and I made improvements. The Volantene pursed his thick lips. "You're Lysene, correct? Though your accent speaks differently. I'm unfamiliar."

"My . . . mother was Lysene, but my father's Pentoshi."

He looked bored already. Putting the parchment down, he went back to his book. How rude. "There are some improvements to make. Not as efficient as it could be. The wheels could be improved, as can the plough. You could use a better design or multiple variants. Not every plough will be good in the same instance. Size doesn't matter and smaller ones can work just as well, if not better. Not to mention that you could use better metal. Chilled-casting. That may work."

"Excuse me?"

The Volantene rolled his eyes and looked at me like I was a child wasting his time. "Molten metal on contact with a cold metal mould. It can make the plough harder. Be careful with the material, though. You don't want it to break by being too brittle." He went back to his book.

An idea popped into my mind. "How do you know that?"

"Experimented down in the city," he waved his hand lazily above him. "I paid a metalsmith to tutor me when I was younger. They accept anyone provided you have enough coin."

"So you create things?"

He rolled his pale-eyes and turned to me, looking frustrated. "I experiment," he extravagated the movement of his mouth for emphasis. "I don't just create things. I improve them and . . . or tell others how to improve them. That's what I'm doing for you won't leave me alone. If I'm being honest, within recent memory, these ploughs of yours have been more interesting than other things I've experimented with." He looked back down at the blueprints once more. "Such designs require less slaves. In Volantis the noble families love using slaves. Especially mine. They want me to join the family business and be an overseer of one of the estates." He said that like he'd been cursed with a terminal disease and winkled his nose. "A waste of my talents and time. I would rather be building things. But that's considered the work of lesser men."

I suppressed a grin. _Oh, you just walked into my trap_. "What if I promise you the opportunity to create?" _Aegon Silver-Tongue strikes again_.

That caught his interest. "And what may that be?"

The way he looked ready to jump at the opportunity told me all I needed to know. After a few days it didn't take long for me to know he processed only a narrow field of interests, and ones that weren't respected or approved by his family. I needed engineers for the Golden Company. Those from high positions of power aided in the possible transfer of resources.

"I know you have an interest in the art of crafting and the building of various technology. From what I've seen so far, I can tell you're very knowledgeable in the way you've both criticised and provided constructive feedback. I can offer you a job, a respectable position worthy of your breeding and various opportunities to expand your talents to however you see fit."

"I am talented," he said, not at all humbly. "But doing what? I don't know you and we've only talked for the last few days. I doubt you'll give me this out the goodness of your heart."

 _Seen right through me there_. But I was one of those people that believed the world improves because of peoples innate selfish desires just happen to benefit others. Enlightened self-interest, I believed it was called . "The position as an engineer within the Golden Company."

His face soured immediately. "Sellswords are below me." He paused. "Why would they have need of me and why would _you_ want _me_?"

I let the silence stir for a moment.

"The Golden Company is in the process of reform. We're looking for the best and brightest to join up. As the son of a commander and working closely to the captain-general himself, I'm on the lookout for potential recruits. We need talented individuals who can build machinery as we currently lack such members."

Vaquo blinked once, twice, then looked back down at his own sketch. "War is not my thing. One, I don't desire to die. Two, it won't give me much time."

 _Time to change tactic, it seems_. "More time than your family is offering, I'm sure. I mean . . ." Despite his words, despite his attempts to dissuade himself, he was intrigued. He had legitimate reasons to not join, I just had to overpower them. "I can offer you a deal. Though this is the one chance you'll have to take it. I have many ideas on what to do and these seed drills and ploughs are only a small part of what I desire to create. I've got bigger, better ideas that will revolutionise the world. You can be a part of that provided you aid me in whatever ways I need. Take my offer, I can provide you with your own resources to do as you desire . . ." _Provided it doesn't disadvantage the Golden Company_.

"While I was never one to desire to see the world outside the Black Walls . . . I may need to. I'll have to ask my father. Though I must say he'll hold reservations to such an idea."

His father, as it turned out, didn't hold any reservations. I was personally ushered into a palace that, while big, was nowhere near the size of it's neighbours. If the son wasn't that visually impressive, his father was anything but. Tall and statuesque, with sculpted features and eyes alight with intellect. He was the vision of what a Valyrian should look like, which of course meant unnaturally good looking. While he was attractive, his attitude was anything but. The patriarch looked at me like I was a dog who'd just threw up on his very expensive carpet. His nose upturned whenever he looked in my general direction, and raised even further if he dared look at Haldon, which was rare for many of the Old Blood saw outsiders as . . . well, that. They treated their slaves as less than furniture.

"The Golden Company seems like a marvellous idea," he said, his voice all high and musical. "It's about time to make something of yourself, Vaquo. This is such an opportunity for you and our house. Especially one for a lesser branch as yourself. A second son. Your circumstances require you to take this opportunity."

Despite his pretty words, they were basically, "I'm done with you under my roof, son. This is my chance to kick you out and I'm taking it with both hands."

I could almost pity Vaquo. It didn't seem the plump Volantene understood, even if everyone else did. That was the way of this world. Any sons after the heir were a drain on the family. That was why many of the Golden Company and other sellsword companies were full of the sons of highborn of Essos. Those who didn't take up the sword got into trades like becoming a trader or a captain of a ship. The fact that Vaquo was apathetic to the point he avoided anything that wasn't his interest did indeed narrow his potential career prospects but gave him greater than average knowledge in fields that did carry his interest.

The plump man nodded lightly. "If my father wishes."

"Very much so. Of course, you'll have everything you require for such a dangerous undertaking." Turning to me, Mr Volnyros looked apathetic, as if his son being sent to potentially die wasn't on his set of worries. Then he ushered me to the side. "What do you want from this? You look similar to the boy who followed the Golden Company officers to visit the Triachs. News travels fast in the Black Walls."

I smiled warmly at him. It was a false smile. As good-looking as the man was – and as much as he made me question my own sexuality – I didn't like him. His smiles never quite reached his eyes. "I saw skills within Vaquo. I think they might prove useful." _With both magic and technology I could revolutionise Westeros. Having meritocracy instead of birthright would be a good place to start_. Much of the problem of Westeros was the idea of people deserving to own things because of their precious bloodline. There was beautiful evidence on why that was a dangerous thing. It was just a shame the nobility were the only ones who had the resources to be educated. While I couldn't break the nobility yet, or within my lifetime, I could lay the foundation for change.

The older man pursed his lips. "I might just question your wit, boy. I see no use of him within a sellsword company, but I won't question the opportunity presented. Though I want one thing of you."

"And what may that be?"

"His safety. He's my second son to my second wife. With his lack of ambition and . . . slowness, he shows himself to be no threat to my eldest. Instead of being productive, he spends his time reading or acting like a plebeian craftsman." He spoke those words with nothing short of disdain. "Regardless of that fact, he's loved by his mother thanks to her tender woman heart. Because I don't want that to break, you'll ensure Vaquo is kept safe, but as far away from Volantis as you are able. I don't desire to see my mongrel of a son again."

That smile never left my face and it only grew larger and more sardonic. "I plan to, Master Vhalaso. Your son will be safe within the Golden Company." Strange words to say, but I did plan to keep Vaquo with the support companies when the reforms were underway. The man gave a nod and, just because he left, I asked a question. "Mind if I ask where I can find myself a glass candle?" They were useful tools if I could remember correctly. They hadn't burnt in recent memory, but began when Daenerys' dragons hatched. They would allow magicians to see around the world, and instantly pass messages without ravens and the like. Something like them would surely impress Lyra and get her on my side. Not to mention, she may be able to get them to work. She did say to have been taught by Marwyn of all people. "I desire to get one."

Master Vhalaso Volnyros looked at me and I saw his lips forming a not-so-subtle smirk. "I know of a few. What do I get in return?"

"Let's come to a arrangement."

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the wait. While I'm not a fan of this chapter, it does set up a few things up for later on in the story like the introduction of another character who's needed for his technical skills, as well as a glass candle. Hope you enjoyed it and I'd like to hear your thoughts. Once again I'd like to thank those who commented, favourited and followed already.

Comments:

osterreicher97: They'd still look down on him, I'd wager. The Old Blood isolated themselves in their bubble and would naturally see themselves as the true heirs of the Freehold. While Aegon is a descendent of the Targs, to the Old Blood, they've pulled away from their Valyrian roots and became Andalised so they're no longer seen as true pure Valyrians and thus barbarians.

Kukogin: The Blackfyres didn't rule Tyrosh directly, instead held influence over the oligarchical republic due to heritage and kin. Daemon married a noble woman called Rohanne who was from a powerful family. I do plan on Aegon taking Tyrosh though and using it as a base of operations. Thanks for the comment and I'm glad you're enjoying it.

Blinded in a bolthole: I was more going for Vaquo having a form of Aspergers and tried to reflect that. Maybe he could be a savant. We'll have to see how it goes.

Van der Ay: Hah, you could say that. Who knows what he'd do in the future.


	10. Chapter 9: Concepts

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 9: Concepts**

* * *

Blackheart rose an eyebrow when I introduced the Golden Company's latest member.

The captain-general was leaning on the table carpeted with maps of Volantene territory and that of the Disputed Lands; with little coloured flags detailing the latest known coordinates of various armies. Commander Myles didn't wear the tasteless armour worn by the other commanders which was always gaudy and gilded as a rule, instead it was dark-grey and dented from previous battles. It made him look like a soldier, though his face and tone screamed general.

"He doesn't look like a warrior."

I glanced at Vaquo Volnyros and couldn't disagree in the slightest. The plump bellied, plain-faced boy wore embroidered silk, dull and muted, but patterned gorgeously with myrish lace and cloth-of-silver. His white-hair was slick with sweat and his hands were slippery as he rubbed and flexed them. The Volantene didn't speak a word since entering camp and instead looked very much like like a deer caught in the headlights and regretting its life choices.

"He doesn't," I granted. "But he's not a warrior."

"A scribe then. Why's he here?"

"He's not a warrior and just the look of him can tell you that. Nor will he be a scribe. But an engineer. He's been helping with my designs."

"Oh, those things." Toyne looked sceptical as he looked the Volnyros boy up and down once more. It was clear he didn't like what he saw. "We're a sellsword company, Young Griff. We need warriors. We don't need boys with their heads high up in the clouds."

"You have plenty of warriors," I said dismissively with a wave of the hand. The way he turned to me made me regret saying it like that. I coughed and quickly changed the route I was going down, "What I mean to say . . . is that there are certain skills we currently lack. I believed we went through this, my lord. You agreed with the need to get engineers and those with knowledge of technology—"

"I said I'll think on it. I don't believe that meant _will_. Why that look?"

I glanced at my companion who didn't seem like he was in the same room as us. He had his lips pursed and face screwed up like smelling something particularly bad. But then again, that was his face whenever he was concentrating.

"Lad. _Volantene_. You are . . ." The captain-generals voice started with an edge before trailing off, waiting for the Volantene to introduce himself.

"Huh?" the pale-skinned boy said abruptly, looking to have been slapped from the way he returned to the present. Then he put on the most awkward half-smile I'd ever seen. "Volnyros. Vaquo Volnyros."

"Volnyros? I know of that house. Your kin are tigers to the bone. Join the Company to impress your family? Not the heir are you?"

"Second son. Second wife," he stated, sounding bored. I could relate in that, just as I could relate to him wanting to get straight to work. "Griff thought I'd have better use working with you lot."

"Better than being in Volantis," I added, nudging him. He tensed and backed away immediately. I fought back a grimace. He was one of the most socially awkward people I'd encountered and I've met a few. "I know you doubt him, ser. But he's already aided me with what I've designed. Some of the ideas will do wonders to aid the Golden Company in the future." That was only half true. What I really wanted from Vaquo was aid in civil engineering. _But should Vaquo fail, I could always send him back . . ._

"I'm sure ploughs will do wonderfully," Blackheart grumbled dryly.

"Siege engines. Ships—"

"I have no knowledge of ships," Vaquo butted in. "I never really cared about that. Besides, I get seasick."

"Scratch ships. I'm sure there's other things he can help us with."

Myles rubbed his eyes. "I've been talking with the bloody Triachs for the last few days because of that bloody murder. They're crying assassination and pointing fingers at each other, within and without their own parties. I don't need any more hassle. Fine, if you're so desperate to have him. He'll be a member of the Company. He can sign up with Harry Strickland but I'll tell you this once and only once. I won't waste resources on the likes of him without first proving himself. Got it?"

"Got it, ser." I bowed my head politely and ensured my little smile was timid enough. Good boys were meant to be a little shy after all.

We were both dismissed and I was left to show Vaquo around the encampment. Like a child being shown a new place, he was intrigued and slightly intimidated and sometimes stopped mid stride or wandered off. I was telling him about all the services like cooks and blacksmiths only to look behind me and see he had gone. A few minutes of searching showed him inspecting the carriages that carried supplies and pulled by the oxen. He ignored the animals and focused on the wagons.

"We never had them in the Black Walls," he said loudly above some nearby hammering when he acknowledged my presence. "I always though they'll be bigger."

"Bigger?" I looked at them. "How big did you expect them to be?"

He shrugged his sloped shoulders. "Bigger."

I then decided to show him to his accommodations which was near mine for the sake of convenience. It wasn't unknown for sellswords to have their own tents, but they were small and not at all comfortable. My latest disciple was most annoyed with his accommodations. Apparently he never worked out that being influenced to join an army would result in a downgrade from his luxurious living conditions.

"This is mine?" He pouted his lips, looking more the indignant child by the second. "My slaves had better quarters than this!"

"Granted, living quarters is much to be desired, but you'll need to prove yourself first. Captain-general Myle Toyne's words. If you do so, you'll get an upgrade of your living situation. But even then, it's only to sleep in. Nothing else."

"But where do I keep my books and everything else?"

"I'm sure Haldon can share," I answered unconvincingly. Haldon had enough books already but I'm sure that he could fit some more. Whenever he wasn't teaching me, Halfmaester spent his time aiding Homeless Harry and the rest of the scribes anyway. He didn't have much free time.

"Haldon?"

"My tutor. Haldon Halfmaester. Trained partially as a maester of the Citadel. Thin man with his hair tied back in a knot behind his head. Surely you've seen him."

Vaquo cocked his head. "I might have."

"Might have? He was with me for most of . . . You know what, screw it." I groaned and pinched the bridge of my nose. It was at this moment where I began to regret my decision. But I had signed the metaphorical contract and he signed the real one so neither of us could back out. Vaquo didn't respond, only looking awkward at me, or around me. Sighing, I finally decided to get something to eat and we ate in silence.

...

This afternoon, when the day's festivities came to an end and the Golden Company returned to camp, Serpent Squad found me sitting by the campfire with Vaquo and sketching Septa Lemore reading from the seven-pointed-star. I could confidently say that my drawing skills with charcoal had much improved and, besides the slightly wonky nose I couldn't get quite right, it looked fairly accurate.

"Hello, most precious septa," Damon sang out, arms wide opened like he was waiting for a hug and a wide grin plastered on his face.

"And hello to you to, Damon," Septa Lemore replied, looking up from her book. "How was it?"

"Same old, same old," Rickard groaned. He collapsed on his arse, pulled out his wineskin and took a swig. "Riots, angry slaves and blood flowing in the streets. The usual."

I rose an eyebrow and Jon answered the unasked question, "There was a riot we needed to suppress. Bloody slaves tore up sections of New Volantis. One red priest accused this one poor sod and the next thing we knew, half the bloody crowd was chanting for the death of a politician and to rid themselves of their chains." He scoffed, but an eagerness grew in his voice. "We were sent to deal with the rabble. Five hundred of us, cavalry charge and everything. Got me-self this nasty looking bruise." He showed me his upper thigh that was red and purple and very disgusting.

"Perhaps you should have that checked," I suggested. "It's appearance might be the least of your worries."

"It's no fun unless we get some scars out of it," Symeon laughed, showing me a cut that went across his neck. It was a shallow cut that'd been bleeding. "Something to impress the girl's with. Are you impressed, lady septa?"

"In that you stood your ground against rioters? I could say so," she said warmly, closing her book. "But bragging? I thought I taught you lot better."

"You certainly taught me," Jon smiled before rubbing his nose with the back of his hand and snorting like a warthog.

"Charming."

Damon cleaned closer to me, smirking. "Symeon got his cut from a fall. No doubt he'll claim he received it for saving the captain-general when the night's done."

I chuckled and saw Qarro staring at Vaquo who'd gone silent as soon as they approached and made a decent impersonation of a tortoise having retreated into it's shell. Just before I could introduce them, the Braavosi said, "Who's the pig?"

 _Pig?_ I stared daggers at him. "Relax, Qarro. Be polite. I won't have you, any of you, insult him. Now apologise."

He turned to me, frowned, but reluctantly did so.

With that out the way, I did introduce them. "All of you fine gentlemen, this is Vaquo Volnyros. A friend of mine, oh, and one of the Old Bloods. He's the newest member to the Golden Company. Vaquo, these are the members of Serpent Squad. The best in the Company, even if the rest of them don't know it yet."

They laughed, except for Qarro who instead said, "Porky here doesn't look like a warrior. He looks like Maar and Homeless Harry's forbidden love child." That caused Symeon to burst out laughing but the person it was projected towards just looked confused.

I gave a reassuring hand. "He's a friend. We should all be here, and he's shy."

While Qarro eyed the Volantene, Damon merely shrugged his shoulders and said, "If you have the griffin's approval, you have mine." He leaned back, kicked off his boots and let his feet brush the short grass. "So Old Blood then . . . what's it like inside those tall walls of yours?"

The rest of them leaned closer, intrigued by the land they could never see. I chuckled and continued drawing, just happy it wasn't me they were questioning this time. To step into the Black Walls was like stepping into heaven in their minds and the questions never stopped. When Septa Lemore turned away from her book as Vaquo explained – albeit awkwardly – I let out a fake cough. She noticed and moved to the same position again so I could accurately do the shading I was just finishing off.

"It's different," the white-haired boy admitted, scratching his neck. "The air is cleaner—"

"You're in the centre of Volantis, how can it be cleaner?" Symeon rolled his eyes.

"Not if the walls are high enough, which they are," I answered, rubbing the excess off the parchment. "Besides, I told you the Black Walls have trees and flowers. One wouldn't notice."

"Bloody maester boy over here lecturing us mere peasants," Jon groaned, taking another swig. "That smug arse tone."

I snorted back a laugh and saw Jon's lazy grin. "I'm not smug."

"Griff, you try so hard not to be smug that it comes off as smugness," Qarro informed me briskly.

I pouted and my response was soft, "I wasn't aware of that."

Jon continued, grinning all the while, "If there are things that not even the great wise Griffin Connington doesn't know, I can't be certain of everything. So thank you."

"There goes my faith in you, Griff," Rickard put his palm against his heart in an extravagant gesture. "Whom can I trust now?"

"Someone I'm sure," I replied. "So what else have you done in New Volantis?" I asked, just finishing up the drawing.

"We were involved in a fight."

"I believe you already mentioned that."

"Afterwards we went to a tavern and drank."

I snorted. "So let me guess. One of you said something and pissed someone off?" Lemore turned her attention at me and I rushed out an apology for my swearing. "But enlighten me, Jon. Did you roughen some drunks up. Did you knock some teeth loose?"

"Aye!" Daemon laughed. "Found a place where many of us had been. But we found a group of locals there. We had a bit of an argument and they came after me."

"Can't blame them. My boy Damon here is a handsome bastard. More bastard than handsome, in truth. But he has only so much to work with." Symeon smirked.

"Your moral support humbles me," the Westerland's bastard replied mildly. "They claimed we were thrashing the city and blamed us for some of the fires . . . and the deaths, those degenerates. I said we weren't and they threw a fit . . . and a few punches."

"It was fun," Jon cheerfully grinned. "You should have been there, Griff. Never had such a rush and we had such a laugh coming back. I knocked this guy's teeth out and downed him in one punch! I'm sure I'll have a few bruises after tonight!"

I never liked being involved in fights. The act of being punched didn't exactly appeal to me. _Yet I'm supposed to get involved into the thick of it . . ._ "I'm sure I should have," I lied, glancing at my septa who pursed her lips.

"You shouldn't be looking for confrontation," she scolded the lot of them. "There is enough tension in Volantis. We don't need more of the locals to go against us."

"Of course, lady septa," Damon said with that easy smile of this, though one that promised he wasn't truly listening. It was also one of those smiles that would make many girls forgive him instantly. It didn't work on Septa Lemore though. "It was wrong of us."

I shook my head and thought hard and deep, ignoring the world around me. Now with someone with technical skills, I could finally march forward with industrialisation. With a glass candle now in my procession, I can secure dominance of a long forgotten aspect of warfare. As the days ticked by, I had less time to prepare for the inevitable. _Alea iacta est_. When it finally came, I'd be ready.

...

Vaquo rose an eyebrow at the schematics as Haldon flicked through the parchments.

It was an extensive pile and was easily among my most complicated works. After all, creating a printing press from nothing but crude drawings transcribed from memory would be difficult. No doubt there would be gaps that'd need to be filled. Haldon though, he was excited about such a concept and all the possibilities it promised. He even looked giddy. I, on the other hand, was more concerned about how to implement it. When I did read self-insert and they had people build a printing press, they made it sound so bloody easy.

It wasn't.

Before me was more a rough draft than anything else. Oh, I knew the basic concept of how the press worked and that wasn't the problem for me. It was building _everything_. Especially even when some of the simplest things would be tricky to make. I knew the person who invented the printing press was a goldsmith and finesse would be important. Such skills would have been important with creating the letters which would need to be individually handcrafted for much of the infrastructure wasn't in place. There was also so many of them. I was counting thousands upon thousands of characters to be used in just one page.

"The concept is truly intriguing," the Volantene mused, blue-eyes lingering on the page with what could be considered lust if you blurred your vision slightly. It was at this moment that I knew I had his full and unconditional support for such an endeavour. Hopefully that'd continue at least for a year or more, long enough to build one at least. Progress would always be slow at first.

"This what you've doing doing when you should be drilling outside?" Haldon's lips twisted into a half smile.

"Tis true," I confessed with false regret. There was something amusing about being proclaimed revolutionary when all I was doing was copying the inventions of better people. If it wasn't my knowledge of history, I'm sure my invention skills would be limited to making sandwiches. That was also why I needed my own engineers. Even if I could come up with the best concepts that could change the world, that would mean nothing should I be unable to build them. "Took a while," I tried to say humbly but the tone was betrayed by the smirk tugging at my lips.

Vaquo put the parchment back on the table. "There is one concern, however. I do question the efficiency of such an endeavour. Valyrian glyphs are many, numbering a few hundred. The economic benefits seem narrow compared to writing by hand."

 _What's what they likely said when the printing press was first invented_. "I don't mean to do it in Valyrian. I mean to do it in the common tongue. Less characters in the language. Twenty-and-six." I could just say twenty-six, but they'll think me a fool in this world. That happened many times already.

Vaquo pursed his lips and spoke something in Valyrian I didn't quite understand, though I doubted it was good. "The common tongue? Why use such a barbaric language? High Valyrian is the tongue of scholars and artists and civilised men."

"But impractical," I shot back, offended by the tone he used. "We should start simple. Don't you agree?"

"I just wonder what we're going to make these characters, as you call them, out of," Haldon mused. "Metal would be required, but that may prove costly depending on what you chose."

"Father will pay for it." Illyrio never lacked coin. He brought three dragon eggs to throw away for starters. He bribed the Old Blood and made such a bloody fortune trading spices and dragonbones and slaves. "Money is of no concern." The spread of knowledge – if somewhat selective – would be a cornerstone of what needed to happen. I desired to eliminate the Citadel and their monopoly of information. I wanted to open the market place of ideas and corner said market. "Any suggestions? My knowledge of materials is not up to par, I'm afraid."

"I'd suggest copper for these." Haldon showed me my own diagram of a matrix. "With your idea of pouring in metal like how a blacksmith makes a sword . . . I suggest lead. It's a soft metal that can be easily melted down to fill the cast. Then we can simply stamp a letter onto it. It may be possible mass produce them like that."

That was good. I forgot about miracle lead. I would have filled them with copper like an idiot. "They may be easier, so we could make a near infinite amount of letters should we have the resources and time." We had neither but there was always the future to think about . . .

With their help, we came up with ideas for many of the problems that could potentially happen. Despite Vaquo's misgivings, the common tongue would be the language used. We currently didn't have the resources to construct such a device. We needed to return to Pentos for that. Illyrio could probably buy a blacksmith or even a foundry for us. He did like to buy my love and I would give that love should my ideas be supported financially. I doubted the original inventor of the printing press had as much support. If I remembered correctly, he died with no money and no home. I didn't desire the same fate.

As the days passed, we continued working: scraping ideas, reconfiguring and improving what we could. With three different minds working on it, arguments came easily. Vaquo was most vocal in his disagreements, despite his passive attitude regarding everything else. It needed to be his way, just as I believed it needed to be my way. Haldon, on the other hand, spent most of that time trying to make us compromise. Once he even brought Septa Lemore after a particularly bitter spat. She didn't seem to understand and simply said how good it was to be so passionate about something. Haldon hadn't been happy with that response.

The most amusing part – when I look back at it – is that the end result was largely the same. Vaquo and I just had different ways to accomplish the same end and we were both too bloody stubborn to give the other any room. I'm even sure that Vaquo would have returned and went back to the Black Wall and take my idea with him if not for the fact he took a contract with the Golden Company, keeping him here for at least a few years. I also doubted his overbearing militant father would like his son back after such a short time, or at all. Still, Vaquo wouldn't leave out of his own freewill, I wagered, despite us butting heads over quite petty things. I was giving him the opportunity to do as he desired, as long as it was within the acceptable boundaries of the Company, which would only increase when I'm declared a Blackfyre and actually hold some proper authority. I was both scared and looking forward to that day.

...

Eventually the elections came to a conclusion with the end result being one tiger and two elephants ruling Volantis, as it had always been since the Century of Blood. With the contract over, the Golden Company was kicked out most unceremoniously with Blackheart announcing we needed to get off Volantene territory within only a few weeks. It was just our luck that there was another war brewing in the Disputed Lands.

The only bad thing was that we wouldn't return to the Rhoyne, which was unfortunate. I really needed to find Lady Lyra. But I couldn't go against the will of the Golden Company nor its officers. I was only Young Griff, not Aegon Blackfyre. I would return, that was a promise, especially after I got my hands on that black candle. I needed only to convince her to be my ally. There was no way I was going to let her get away.

The next day, with the sun bright over the training yard, I heard the shout. Sighing with relief, I grabbed Damon's offered hand and he yanked me back to my feet.

Commander Galaerys Drahar looked us up and down with some pride for once. "You have improved much in my eyes," the Myrman declared. "Aye, a fine group of young men who'll serve well in the years to come. When you came here, you were mere boys. Untested, unbloodied with no skills to speak of. But now, you are men. No longer mere recruits, but proper members of the Golden Company. Despite your past, despite your heritage, what are you?"

"Men of the Company," we chanted between panted breaths. "Beneath the gold the Bittersteel." Each morning and night we said that, and it became true. It was indoctrination and despite being aware of it, I felt myself getting drawn in regardless. They called it a brotherhood of exiles and it was truly a brotherhood. I was loyal to those I practised with and the Company. I knew they would fight for me, just as I would for them.

"You are. Now clean up. The lot of you reek and I'll rather not waste any more of my precious time with you lot. Off with you."

Grinning, we all took our leave. Damon whooped when we got out of sight. "Now longer 'pprentices. We're proper members of the Company," he said, laughing. "My whore of a mother said I'll never accomplish anything. I could laugh at her now. Fucking cunt."

"You were never close to her," I stated the obvious. My blond-haired friend never spoke much of her, nor his father. Before joining the Golden Company, Damon lived just outside Lannisport, and later Damon told me his father was a knight of House Lantell, or a Lanny. Both of whom were the distant kin of House Lannister. I had wagered he was a Lannister bastard and I was most annoyed I was wrong. I lost a few coins to Duck for that.

"Seven hells I'm not. She was a whore who opened up her legs for anyone who brought her drinks. Oh, she birthed me, but she was never my mother. Beat me, she did, and didn't feed nor clothe me. Not if she could avoid it anyway."

"Sounds like a caring mother," Jon japed.

"If it was about herself, she certainly was."

We got cleaned up and changed into more suitable garbs. Our soiled padding was given to camp followers to clean up because Galaerys said, "Cleaning is a woman's duty." Free labour was free labour and the camp followers were allowed to follow the army in return for basic services. They were families, merchants and whores who all tagged along. They nursed, sewed, washed and traded. Prostitution was restricted to maintain order and limit the chance of sexually transmitted diseases that could decimate an army. Most of the time, Myles Toyne considered them little more than mouths on legs. They needed to be fed, transported and guarded, but even he conceded they provided aid when it came to companionship as well as somewhat basic logistical support. Thinking about that, I believed that the Company needed a proper logistical and support company, but the camp followers would remain for sure. Many sellswords brought their families with them and wouldn't want them left somewhere. I would have to deal with that problem when I got to it and brainstorm potential solutions.

I added that to the expansive list of things to do.

Stretching my aching limbs, I turned to a chuckling Mallor who was looking at me, dark eyes grinning. "Look at those bruises. You're an awful fighter, Griff."

"I am. No need to add salt to the wound by mentioning it," I grunted bitterly. While I had much improved - especially when I didn't have any experience fighting, ever, let alone medieval combat before entering Essos - those around me improved as well. They'd been serving in the Company for longer and had experience before that. I was at a disadvantage.

"He sees himself a scholar and too fancy for the likes of us," Symeon Lime declared, though his tone was more jovial than hostile. "That's why he spends time with Snowball. The one person he knows he can beat."

I rolled my eyes at the name they gave Vaquo. Mostly, I think it came down to the fact his name wasn't that easily pronounceable and the fact that he was plump and had white hair. They didn't use it as an insult, though, which I was thankful. They merely called him that as a nickname, though I personally found it a bad one. "I don't see myself as being fancy."

"You weren't with us in Volantis," Qarro grumbled, splashing himself with some cool water from a bowl. "You either sodded off to the Black Walls or remained in camp with your highborn friend. Sometimes I wonder why you're even here. We're meant to work together."

Those words hurt more than I cared to admit and I bit the inside of my cheek. "I did leave you, that much is true. But not out of my own volition. It was because of my father. He . . . he's very overprotective."

"He doesn't want his son to scratch his pretty face," Lime chuckled, slapping me on the back, the palms of his hand sticking to my skin, peeling off as he removed it. Was there a more uncomfortable sensation then sweaty hands?

"Pretty?" I turned to him.

"Prettier than most of the girls here," he replied, beginning to strip into fresh clothes. "You look like one of those Lysene boy whores nobles sodomise up the arse."

Despite myself, I felt my face blush. "Well . . . each word you say makes me more uncomfortable. Thank you for you that."

The ginger smirked crudely. "You're welcome."

"You know, Symeon, when we get into the sparring yard next, I'll make you eat those words," I said, trying to sound as threatening as my pubescent voice would allow.

It seemed to amuse all the older boys than anything. "I'd love to see that," Lime grinned. "It'll be all the funnier when I put you on the ground again."

"Won't happen."

"It will. I mean, to be fair, you are the worst among our little group," Damon said. "You do lose most of our bouts."

"Granted, maybe it's your size. You're smaller than the likes of us," added Mallor unhelpfully. "You've improved, though."

"Still lost most of our bouts," Damon repeated. "You haven't improved enough."

I pouted. "Winning isn't everything." I did know skill in arms was important, if not just survival but being used as a propaganda tool. One of the reasons for Daemon's support during the Blackfyre rebellion was the fact that the Black Dragon was a master swordsman and Daeron wasn't. In Westeros it was believed that if you could swing a sword around, that made you worthy enough to rule over everyone. No doubt my Blackfyre-ancestors were rolling in their grave with my skill level. I would need to improve my swordsman skills for when I did invade.

"To survive a battle it is. Griffin, I would love to see you face off against a Dothraki horselord. He'll gut you like a fish in mere moments."

I only scoffed. I wasn't afraid of Dothraki. They were caricatures of caricatures. People said they were the Mongols of Essos, but should they find themselves against the actual Mongols, it would be such a one-sided battle it wouldn't even be funny. I could have said that, but instead I said, "You're right, you know. I won't stand up to them."

"Not without our help anyway," Damon chuckled. "Don't worry, Little Griff. Hide behind me. I'll protect you."

* * *

A/N: This chapter took a while. I was busy with work and thus not have enough time to write as I would have liked. The next chapter will be at Lys and after that would be the war in the Disputed Lands where the Golden Company will actually prove why it's the best free company in Essos. Again I'd like to thank those who commented, favourited and followed. I like hearing your thoughts and if you think anything could be improved.

Comments:

coldblue2015: I'm happy you found it interesting and thank you. Yea, his friends were jealous with him, not just because there's obvious cronyism (if for different reasons than they think), but because he's been sheltered. Aegon will be hardened throughout the story. Fighting in the Disputed Lands will only be a start. I'm aiming for Aegon to be a tactician and strategist rather than fighter.

You're correct about the survival instinct. Lady Lyra is important and there'll be dragons later on. I'm unsure whether Aegon will use magic himself, for I always planned for Lyra to be the specialist when it came to that. Aegon's Targ/king's blood would give him an edge but I currently don't have any plans for that to happen later.

osterreicher97: I'm glad you enjoyed it. It would be hard to change how an army operates, especially when Aegon's still a kid. But given enough time, they should be in better shape. It's already the best army in the known world, but could do with some improvements still.

Ragnas Bredvolts: While I haven't watched the latest season, I always knew the Golden Company would simply be redshirts that'd be killed off, but even I was surprised at how barely relevant they were. Cersei could have had them be Lannister soldiers or other sellswords and it wouldn't have made any difference. Also, there will be elephants.

Tom2011: I'm unsure what you mean by OC from our time? If you're referring to Aegon/Young Griff, he's a canon character in the book series. He's just been possessed from someone from our time. That's kind of how much of the self-insert genre goes. There will be technological advance to an extent, but nothing unreasonable and, if anything, it may increase the intrigue and drama in a way.


	11. Chapter 10: The Perfumed Daughter

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 10: The Perfumed Daughter**

* * *

The Free City of Lys was far too pretty to be a real city.

I heard many stories from sailors, sellswords and traders who all sprouted nothing but praise for the perfumed city. I couldn't blame them as I stood atop the deck of the _Sea Queen_ , a trading galley we had sailed on from the Lysene colony of Morghos. The walls were tall, rising more than fifty feet high and a symbol of Valyrian supremacy from the time of the dragon lords. They were striking different from the Black Walls of Volantis which were dark and sinister and something one would expect to see in Mordor; Lys' walls were white or pale tan stone, with ornate crenellations sculpted in the forms of beautiful maidens, comely boys and elegant swans. On the stone were portraits of animals, war and even lovemaking. _Lys the Lovely_ , they called it. _The Jewel of the Freehold, the Perfumed City, never been marred by war_.

That was not really the case. Lys had the reputation thanks to its powerful navy and wealth which it used to hire mercenaries, bribe enemies and pay tribute. That didn't mean it had never been attacked in its history, however. Volantis invaded once, crushing the Lysene fleet in the channel and storming the walls after a bitter siege where they forced most of the inhabitants into slavery. A century later, the Tyroshi did likewise and installed a puppet regime which lasted twenty years before being overthrown and everything returned to the previous status quo where the Lysene focused on trade and their games in the Disputed Lands.

The crescent-shaped dock was a forest of masts with a canopy of colourful sails. It housed vessels from all around the world. All the Essosi Free Cities had busy ports and Lys was one of the busiest. Its sheltered harbour was awash with colour and clangour and strange smells I had never smelled before. The waterfront had winesinks, expansive warehouses and gaming dens, cyverse parlours and brothels. There were banks and moneylenders, insurers and dozens of different temples. Wizened old women with hunched backs sold magical artefacts and potions they claimed could cure any ailment or force others to love you. Sailors and marines traded jokes in languages I couldn't understand, drinking strange liquors and browsing the stalls of the vast bazaars. The people were all different, as could be expected of a city reliant on trade. They swarmed the streets, looked down from delicate balconies and filled the various temples and lodges. There were hairy men from Ibben, albino Qartheen in linen and samite and tiger fur, Tyroshi with dyed hair and garish slashed sleeves, and Braavosi more like to scowl than smile. Then there were the natives where the blood of Old Valyria ran strong and born from a city so famous for its beauties that they were sought after as wives and paramours for Essosi elites and Targaryen royalty.

The docks was heavy with the smell of wine, fresh and rotting fish, hot tar and sawdust, incense and oil and perfume, as well as more unsavoury things I'd rather not think about. We passed long stone quays with massive cranes to lift cargo in and out of trading vessels. Alongside them were crates and sacks of saffron, frankincense and pepper, Lyseni silk and expensive herbs - trade, the lifeblood of the city's economy.

Not to mention slaves.

There was so many of them. Lining up on the docks with leathers chokers tight around their necks, chained together and waiting to be shipped to who knows where. Each of the Essosi Free Cities specialised in something; Tyrosh with dyes and Myr with manufacturing for instance. Lys was renowned the world over for sexual slavery where they enslaved people and trained them to perform in pleasure houses around the world. Some of them looked as young as myself, others even younger. I felt my hands form a fist just thinking about it.

 _You can't change anything. Not yet. Just be patient_.

Captain Myles Blackheart led us down the broad road lined with trees providing shelter from the sun. Just like Volantis, there were aqueducts and giant triumphal arches dating back to Old Valyria. Towers stood tall and slim, while elaborate fountains filled every square and public garden, wrought in the shapes of griffins, dragons, swans and pretty youths. Pale-bricked residences rose three to four stories high with balconies held aloft with elegant slender columns. Having visited a few of the Essosi cities, there was no doubt in my mind that Westeros would disappoint.

"So where're we heading?" I asked when we passed an arcade where the city's heroes stood atop columns of white and green marble before the grand Temple of Trade with its vast dome made of glass and shining bronze.

"There's a lodge called the Golden Valyrian," Myles explained, "I hear it's a decent enough establishment that caters to Westerosi lords, merchant princes and commanders of the Golden Company. Not the most renowned establishment in Lys, I know, but it'll serve our purposes."

Eventually we reached the lodge with its hanging sign of a golden dragon hanging above the door. It was a four-story building of pale red brick with ivy growing up the side of it. Inside was massive and the common room was a maze of dimly-lit half-walls with private alcoves and nooks so no one could be disturbed. We were greeted by a comely slave who, after a few words with Homeless Harry, escorted us to a secluded corner.

Myles Toyne, smiling that warm smile of his, waved the guards away and let me sit opposite him. "We should talk in private, just us five officers."

The others turned to me. "He's an officer?" Jon asked, surprised. He blinked. "He's a child and fresh out of training."

"A wise one despite his age and occasional bouts of immaturity," Blackheart waved dismissively. "You should know that. I was told he was well learned even before what happened, but now I've seen with my own eyes. I'm impressed. While I don't consider myself a scholarly man, I know when I see one."

I smiled shyly. "I hope so. I've nothing else going for me . . ." _Besides birth, privilege, looks and understanding of the future, lore and characters._

"Humility is good until it isn't," Myles spoke, signalling a slave forward and ordering everybody food and drinks. "There is a certain power in acting proud. It shows confidence and paints a picture that you know what they're doing, but you also need to back it up with actions or at least an illusion of such. Confidence is important, especially for a leader be it a humble sergeant or the mightiest emperor. Westerosi lords flock towards confidence and displays of power like moths to a lamp at the dead of night. I'm sure Haldon's been teaching you symbol politics. But be warned that it shan't be done in excess. One can become blinded by their pride and falling into that trap will create tunnel vision. You'll become ignorant of your own failings and overestimate your strengths. Those are the worst things for anyone in a position of authority. You understand?"

I nodded. "I do."

"So the boy's an officer now?" Harry asked.

"I would say so," Myles grinned at me. "Granted, you still have much to learn, but you've finished training and have shown remarkable wits about you. Your blood ensures you reach this position, but your abilities show that, after some refinement, it may be warranted. Be warned though, many will look down on you for your age and lack of experience. Prove them wrong, lad. You'll have the opportunity soon enough. More so when we decide to fulfil our oaths in blood."

"Oaths in blood?" Jon Connington looked uncomfortable. "It sounds like you speak of going against the Iron Throne."

"Of going against Good King Robert Baratheon?" Toyne placed a hand to his heart and put on a fake look of hurt. "You think I'll dare suggest as much when Robert proved you just need an army and not dragons to take the Seven Kingdoms?"

"He's got a claim though," I told him. "His grandmother was a Targaryen. Should anything have happened to the Targaryens before the Rebellion, Robert would've been the strongest claimant to the Iron Throne. That was why they crowned him king when Aerys spat in the face of his feudal obligations."

"He had an army, that's all that truly matters," Myles told me in a tone that demanded I say no more. "Oh, he's got Targaryen blood in his veins, but it was his victories in the Rebellion that won him the throne. But as you say, Young Griff, his blood claim did come from his grandmother. Yours is only a few generations ago. Not that much difference between you two."

 _Only if you squint your eyes_. I bit my bottom lip and glanced at the slaves around us. "Are you sure we should talk here? About this? There may be spies. There _will_ be spies."

Blackheart waved my objections away. "All the slaves here are sworn to secrecy."

"Oaths sworn won't keep loose lips from telling. Even the lack of a tongue isn't certain to keep secrets." My purple eyes narrowed. _Dead men tell no tells_. Even though Varys was on my side . . . _hopefully_. . . I didn't want to take the risk.

"Wise words," Connington nodded.

"Wiser words would be speaking of those we'll be warring against," Lysono Maar butted in. "My spies inform me Tyrosh and Myr have united under the banner of eternal friendship. They've emptied their treasuries in the coming campaign against Lys. My eyes report they've hired four free companies, though it may be more. They've been humouring various captains."

Toyne looked thoughtfully for a moment. "Be they four or a hundred, it won't matter. We've never surrendered, nor do we switch sides. Our employers break before we do. Even if they outnumber us, we'll do what we're paid to do."

"Quantity is a quality of its own," Jon commented.

"That it is. Maar, who can we expect to face?"

"The Myrish are sending their very own Myrish Company, so expect four-hundred crossbowmen. Well-armed, well-trained. That'll provide a sizeable archery contingent. We know the Stormcrows will also number among this army. Five hundred cavalry, a mixture of light and heavy horse—"

Stormcrows . . . I knew of them. They were the sellsword company aligned with Daenerys Targaryen in Slaver's Bay. The one led by Daario the Peacock. I never liked that guy. The books described him in a comical fashion and he was such an annoying character. _Maybe I'll see if he's as bad as described . . ._

"—and the Company of the Rose who number two thousand men. Most come from Westeros – adventurers and second sons but among them are those like us, exiles and descendants of exiles dating back generations. Their leader is talented, but cautious as well. Then there are the Stormbreakers who are the heaviest of heavy infantry. No doubt they'll form the centre."

"Stormbreakers . . . Company of the Rose. They're predominately Westerosi, aren't they?" I asked.

"Aye. Both of them," Jon said, his pale-blue eyes shifting around the common room. "The Stormbreakers were founded by Ser Oscar Tully after the Dance of the Dragons. Not as powerful as they once were, but they remain a threat on the field. The Roses were founded after Aegon's conquest of the North."

"They're Northmen," I said, thinking deeply.

It did make me wonder that should I invade Westeros, whether I'd be fighting the Starks in the future. Many fanfics had them the heroes who could do no wrong, which was further strengthened by them being the closest thing to protagonists in the books . . . at least initially. I also doubted they'd like me. They had no reason to whether I was black or red. _We'll be on equal terms then_. In truth, I wasn't much a fan of the North. The whole 'we ruled the North for eight thousand years,' shtick always had be rolling my eyes. Regardless of my opinions on the matter, my invasion needed to happen when Westeros was divided. To achieve that, characters like Joffrey and Littlefinger were the best tools for sowing the seeds of destruction. Afterwards, they'll simply be disposed after fulfilling their purpose.

 _And should the civil war not happen for whatever reason, I could send a message to Varys hinting at a possible Targaryen claimant in the North . . ._ Should R plus L be true here, it would ignite conflict between the Starks and the Iron Throne. While I personally didn't believe that theory, I could have Varys nudge Robert into believing it and, thanks to his hatred of Targs, just the suggestion would damage relations between him and his childhood friend.

"Skilled warriors by all accounts," Jon Connington stated. "But they'll fall like the rest of them. We'll win this war and the games will continue in the Disputed Lands."

The wars in the Disputed Lands were less a war and more like a dance with both sides too hesitant to properly engage the other and all too happy to prolong the conflict to maximise profits, while simultaneously pillaging the countryside. During the fighting, many sellswords switched to the winning side for the promise of gold and survival. The Golden Company, by contrast, didn't switch sides. Its word was as good as gold and were paid a premium because of that. That did get me thinking about the costs to modernise the Golden Company. They won coin by fighting but that also provided an interesting conundrum. The more the Golden Company fought, the richer it grew, but we'd lose men in the process and wars cost us still. The loss of veterans and talented officers was a heavy blow especially. But we couldn't get coin without war and much coin was needed for the future . . .

Then it hit me.

While Lys, Tyrosh and Myr had their own garrisons made up of citizens, they entrusted the majority of their wars and defences to battle-hardened mercenaries. Should something happen that would have the Golden Company strengthen their monopoly of the arms market, we could force our hand and become greater political players. It wouldn't be without precedent in Essos either. Many mercenaries, after becoming powerful enough, forged their own kingdoms . . . though usually falling. Taking an idea from history's handbook, I had a solution to finance the Golden Company, get ships for Westeros, and at a lower risk.

A few times the Disputed Lands had been united, first under the Freehold, than Volantis and more recently with the Triachy. At it's prime, the Triachy of the Three Daughters was powerful. Their fleet and armies could stand toe to toe against Prince Daemon when he tried to form his own kingdom in the Stepstones and were later involved in the Dance of the Dragons where they fought six dragons in the Battle of the Gullet and slayed two. They were rich and powerful enough to worry their neighbours of Volantis, Pentos and even far off Braavos. _Certainly rich enough to finance a professional army of ten thousand men . . ._

While it would be difficult to implement, I knew it was achievable and the end results would put me above my ancestors; even Maelys Blackfyre who had secured the Disputed Lands and the Free City of Tyrosh by installing Alequo Adarys as a tyrant. I planned to take a few steps further. I wouldn't just have one city and the Disputed Lands, I would have them all. I'll unite the three bickering daughters of Valyria and turn them into tributary states – puppets – to do my bidding. I could do it the old fashion way and besiege them, but that would cost too much manpower and I would rather not risk openly antagonising the rest of the Free Cities. Instead, I'd manipulate them and undermine their republics by installing factions more sympathetic to the Blackfyre cause. It'll give the Golden Company the resources it needs to improve and expand. I just needed to get Myles and the others to agree on it.

I let out a fake cough to get their attention. They ignored me, so I repeated it and this time they broke from their conversation and turned to me. "Off topic, but I've an idea. You speak of how to win a war for a few scraps of coin. What if I suggest something bigger. Something to both improve our current situation as well as future ambitions." I smiled my most charming smile and they listened.

...

Myles Blackheart Toyne, the good man he was, decided my ambitions for the Disputed Lands did in fact hold some merit. A few days after meeting with the First Magister where he hired the Golden Company for a substantial price, and with the help of Lysono Maar, we were to meet our potential allies.

The city was asleep as we rode through the wide open streets. Nearly everyone had retreated back to their homes and the only people we encountered were cut-purses, thieves and city-owned slaves who cleaned the street as well as the occasional guard patrol. Besides the light coming from paper lanterns and buildings, the streets were pitch dark. For this meeting, I was garbed in a manner fitting my station as a squire and son of a Golden Company officer: black padded doublet, sword and dirk, riding boots and a black half-cloak. My hair had been neatened, cut and applied with a fresh coat of dark-blue dye. It was quiet – too quiet – and the air was chilly. Me and everyone else had our hands on the handles of our weapons should anyone leap out the shadows. We moved with haste.

"Do you know who they are?" I quietly asked Jon Connington who rode beside me, his pale-blue eyes scanning every alleyway from our lodge to where the elites resided. Before us were manses upon manses, all impressively built with high walls lined with metal spikes to keep out those pesky unwashed masses.

"Ambitious merchants," Jon replied with scorn. "As trustworthy as Essosi tend to be."

"So not very trustworthy then."

I didn't need trustworthy men. The opposite in fact. While I didn't believe in the goodness of mankind, I trusted people to remain loyal to me due to mutual self-interest. I only wanted them to be competent and not needing to be hand held. What I aimed to achieve was a political coup to weaken the opposition be it via slander or outright killing, as well as threats and empowering my supporters. Doing so would place my allies/puppets in power and then they'll be ruling Lys for a few years. I'd been researching how best to manipulate the current power structure and prayed it wasn't half as complicating as it seemed.

We stopped down before the iron gates of the manse. Even as dark as it was, the building was beautiful with nine towers tipped with domes of polished metal and the pale-brick walls were covered in ivy. Guarding the gates were Unsullied with copper skin and dark almond eyes, their faces hairless and atop were spiked bronze caps. I eyed them coldly as one demanded our weapons and names. We did hand them over after asking for guest rights and we answered their questions. My own being Griff Connington while the others answered with their true names. The Unsullied commander glanced from me to my supposed father, but ushered us in when Myles Toyne stated his rank.

Inside the grounds, we dismounted and a handsome slave led us inside the palace to an audience chamber with mosaics of coloured glass depicted wanton youths – both boys and girls – and beasts in lust. _Seriously, w_ _hat's with all these images of bestiality?_ The Lyseni did love their erotic arts, no matter how deprived. The air was so thick with the scent of spices, sweet lemon and cinnamon that I nearly sneezed. Before us were nobles lounging on plush couches with young slave girls tending to their every need. Some danced before their masters in sheets of translucent silk, a handful played music in the corner and others brought forth fruits and wine. It was meant to be joyous, but there was an underlying uncomfortable feeling as well. Most of the nobles, I noted, had the gold and silver hair that came with Valyrian heritage. The blood of Old Valyria was so common in Lys that even beggars in the streets had it. Others lacked those characteristics but looked just as rich in vividly patterned garbs and enough jewels to feed a family for a lifetime.

"Ah, the Golden Company, what a wonderful surprise," stood up one man who the slave introduced as Tregar Ormollen, the owner of the manse and the most powerful person in the room. The man we needed to get on our side.

We bowed our heads respectfully. Magister Ormollon was a pale-skinned man with silver-hair that had been curled and perfumed. He was handsome despite his large nose that was like a beak of an eagle. At his side could only be his head paramour, not his wife, Lady Lynesse Hightower. She was a beauty with long golden-hair, deep blue eyes and delicate features. She wore a ivory dress of samite and a silver torc around her slender neck.

"Not much of a surprise with you having invited us," Jon deadpanned, eyeing everyone with suspicion.

"Of course," our host said, delighted. "Rarely do I get to host such individuals in my own home, especially with such a proposal you've set out. I'm sure you expected it just between me and my dearest companion Gyleno, but I've associates who may support the idea in question." He smiled brightly and clapped his hands together. "Please, my guests, have a drink. Try some food. It would be wrong for me to not offer you anything."

The slaves were quick to surround us and despite taking a cup, I didn't take a sip. Lyseni were infamous for offering poisoned wine. While I doubted they would have poisoned it, I didn't desire to take the risk.

"Please take a seat, my lords." Tregar laughed lightly and some of his posse followed his example. They were his sheep, with little will of their own and more than happy to eat whatever crumbs he threw onto the floor for them. "I understand you've got a proposal for me and my friends here."

"You're the _Good Men_ ," Maar said, taking a seat of a padded bench, smiling though it never reached his eyes. "Traders, landowners, officials of various guilds and slave-owners. Just one of many factions out to protect their own interests."

"Indeed we are," Gyleno Rogare said. While our host was all smiles and compliments, this man never smiled once. He was a short man, with dark-hair and a hard lined face. He wore plainer clothes and waved away any slave girl who approached him with refreshments. "Bankers and insurers, merchants and captains. I wonder why the Golden Company of all people would desire to meet with us. I understand our fine city has hired your services in the Disputed Lands to deal with our rivals, so I wonder why you're here."

"Indeed. The Free City of Lys has indeed hired our services against alliance of Myr and Tyrosh," Maar confirmed. "But we're here to speak of something else."

Myles stepped in. "We desire to unite the Disputed Lands and the three daughters of Valyria. You could say we seek to resurrect the Triachy of the Three Daughters."

That caused a few to laugh. Tregar looked confused, but amused as well. "And why would the Golden Company of all people want that? You'll be out the job. The lot of you. You're employment is almost entirely in the Disputed Lands and should the three of us unite, well, you'll lose business."

"Our reasons are for ours alone," Jon Connington told them.

Rogare snorted rudely.

"There'll be a way for all of us to benefit from this arrangement," Harry Strickland put forth. "We heard from the Magistrate that Myr and Tyrosh are employing multiple sellsword companies to kick your kin out the Disputed Land and then will split the lands between themselves. Any Lysene will be exiled or enslaved should they remain on the mainland. Your processions will be stolen and lands forfeit. That is why you're looking to employ the Golden Company. But, should you be willing to listen and come to support what we suggest, you won't merely retain what you have, but receive something much more substantial."

"And what may that be?" asked Rogare with a face devoid of expression. "What can you offer us and why not give this offer to the current ruling magisters?"

"As we desire to unite the Three Daughters, we seek to become a part of it. As is only fair. But first we need a city to agree and, unlike the lands of Westeros, you hold elections, and soon. From what our reports say, it seems that you're unlike to come out on top with the latest coalition under Magister Ternessio Lothor."

"Tis true," Gyleno said bitterly. "He's been busy buying up votes. We can't keep up." He grimaced. While House Rogare wasn't as powerful as it once was – with the main branch having lost all their money and influence during the Lysene Spring – a few distant branches survived and struggled to claw back power. Gyleno Rogare was one of them and I had no doubt he would see his house return to greatness . . . even if I meant making a deal with the devil.

"Elections are a fickle thing, we've found."

"You dare suggest to influence and undermine our most righteous republic?" Tregar asked like it was a jest. He smiled, though it lacked warmth. Then his tone went serious. "So what do you want from this . . . _alliance_. Do you desire coin and promises to support your latest ambitions in Westeros? How do you plan to aid us?"

"You saw right through me," Blackheart chuckled. "In return for your aid, we promise to aid you in the coming elections and after you take office. Holding a city is hard work and no doubt there are many who need to, well, _be taken care of_. You'll have the support of the Golden Company to do whatever you desire to happen. Men loyal to you. Our word is gold, after all. We just ask a few things in return."

"Ships?" Lynesse Hightower asked. Although her voice was soft and delicate, there were cunning in those eyes of hers. "No doubt the Golden Company desires ships. Plan to return to Westeros? You believe the reign of King Robert is weak?" She laughed softly. "Who's going to rally to your cause? I don't see a Blackfyre after the last one died. Well, sorry to disappoint you, the Ironborn tried and the Isles were smashed by Robert's hammer. If anything, the Greyjoy Rebellion cemented his reign." She scanned each of our faces, her eyes resting on me the longest. "With your lack of a black dragon, I see even less support and you had little to none in your last attempt."

"We lack a Blackfyre, tis true," Harry said, "but that's not what we desire. It is not unusual for sellsword companies to take charge of the cities should they get powerful enough and cities this side of the Narrow Sea are bloated in coin. But we are exiles and Westeros is our home. Land stolen from us we want to get back."

"So what is it you desire from us?"

"Coin," I answered bluntly. "A tribute of gold will suffice initially." They didn't look impressed with that, so I elaborated. "You'll benefit, of course" I said, swaying my wine gently and taking a light sip for pleasantries sake. Between everyone, it was Tregar Ormellen and Gyleno Rogare we needed. Everyone else would follow with lesser promises. I needed to get them on the bandwagon. "The Golden Company can bring peace to the Disputed Lands. Lys will flourish without the worry of sellswords ravaging her holdings. You won't have to employ any other free companies. Your own pockets will get heavier and, with us to support you, you'll be the undisputed leaders of this fair city. Imagine increasing the power and influence of your houses. Your faction would be unrivalled. We understand that some of you here have encountered hard times. House Rogare for instance has struggled to survive after the Lysene Spring, just barely floating in the water. Magister Lothor, though, he's been busy framing his rivals and using his influence to take his opponent's wealth and ships to build up his already impressive fleet. No doubt he'll turn his eyes to you after the next election. He'll strike and bring you to ruin, but you can strike him and his allies first."

"I'm guessing similar offers will extend to the other cities," Ormellen mused.

I nodded, glancing at Myles who gave me permission to proceed. "Each one has a choice to make. The Golden Company will offer you a deal that will benefit both parties, or we will offer you the sword. If you and all other political parties of Lys refuse, your city will be looted and sacked. We'll kill your menfolk, drag your women and children into slavery and everything of yours will be sold to the highest bigger. The city will be under our control and we'll rule as despots. No mercy will be given, none offered. Make your choice now for while the alliance we offer may not be flawless, it still beats dying."

"You dare threaten us, child?"

"We're the Golden Company. We find it's a better business practise to be blunt and honest."

"The citizens won't like this," one woman with black-hair said. "They might rise up . . ."

"A key for popular reign is to blame the previous rulers for every blunder and claim ownership for their every success, all the while avoiding the opposite," I told them with an easy smirk and once more took another sip. It was sweet on my tongue and I felt a giddiness rise through my body. "The Golden Company cares deeply for its friends."

"Tell that to Tyrosh," Rogare grunted his displeasure.

But in the end, we shook hands, shared wine and ended up very close friends indeed.

* * *

A/N: Nothing like the protagonist undermining a plutocratic government to suit his own ends. This chapter is more setup for what happens later and a way for the Golden Company to build a power base and increase its strength as 10k just won't cut it. No doubt a few factions would be worried about Lys, Tyrosh and Myr suddenly not being at each others throats (such as Braavos and Volantis) but that'll be a small price to pay. Again I'd like to thank those who've commented, favourited and followed. Next chapter will be Aegon's first battle and will include one familiar face.

Comments:

osterreicher97: Don't be mean to Lynesse. It was Mormont's fault for he could have refused. Jorah kept giving her what she wanted which caused him to go in a downwards spiral where he became a slaver. I wouldn't consider what's happening in the Disputed Lands all that complicated. Puppet/tributary states were common throughout history. You're correct about building up support in Essos due to the lack of such they'll find in Westeros.

Angry lil' elf: Thanks. The Golden Company had always been a political power. I'd imagine Maar and his spies infiltrate cities and encourage conflict so the Golden Company could finance itself. In my draft, I haven't got plans for Lynesse Hightower to feature much more but I could always make changes. Thinking about it, she would be an interesting character and could delegate between the Golden Company and Lys. Does seem to suspect Aegon of not being what he seems and in the books is hinted that she's the chief concubine who even the wife fears. Certainly has expensive tastes, one of the reasons she became the lover of a merchant prince. It won't be Jorah Mormont, it'll be . . . a certain lover of Daenerys.

Tartarus0884: I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter and there'll be more political manipulations by Aegon throughout the story.

coldblue2015: Thanks for the comment. It is ambitious to try and unite the three cities, but doing so would provide a good launching pad for Westeros and yes, it is like a protection racket. Cosying up to Lys and Tyrosh would be necessary due to both being islands and thus harder to invade. YG hates slavery but trying to abolish it outright would do no good unless he wants to turn the region into a cluster fuck like Slaver's Bay. He also finds doing a more gradual process would do better in the long term. Aegon will get experience and I do plan for him to get his hands on a few magical artefacts that will play a part in the story. Such a thing would be necessary against characters like Euron.

NeedingOfLifeGoalDude: Thanks for the comment. Westeros will largely follow canon for now. But Essos, Daenerys and Viserys will be subject to butterflies. Aegon's rank is interesting for he's green and not all that experienced but as he's a Blackfyre, would need be be in a command position to build up leadership skills, but at the same time needs to be hidden. So I'd expect he would be among the lowest officer for now. The changes he has made a largely in support and logistics, not much else as it's still early days for the Company.

Adding extra characters from Earth could be interesting. It would provide more challenges for Aegon should they come into conflict. Maybe I could do references to them in history like Garth Greenhand being an SI who revolutionised Westerosi agriculture. The Maester Glendon scene was done for humour and so you know Aegon's learning more about the world. I didn't intend for him to be used more through the story. For the last bit, there will be mentions of conflicts in Westeros history as well as examining how they fight.

BrotherCaptainSheperd: Glad you're enjoying it. It will partially be styled after the Roman Legions when it comes to logistics and how it's organised, but will also have influences from various other armies throughout history. There will be a balance of what you said, as well as field artillery.

duncke: Thank you for the comment and the suggestion. I plan to do so.

zArthur: Cheers. Unless there's a house in Westeros – such as the Tyrells who provide much in the way of money and men – a marriage between the Blackfyre and Targaryen lines would prove beneficial and it'll unite supporters from both camps. The only problem would be Viserys and whether he'd agree, or whether the Blackfyre supporters will want him to stand in the way of one of their own dragons being crowned. I don't plan on a dumb and dumber ending, rest assured.

TMI Fairy: More than a few have suggested a Daenerys marriage alliance. Viserys would be powerless, but he can't be made to think that, else you'll wake the dragon. I don't know what you're referring to with the Dornish master plan, but I want it to happen! Daenerys will certainly be happier, but her canon love interests were a warlord who raped her and a cartoon, so there's not really a high bar to step over to be perfectly honest.

Ssj1998: Thanks for the comment. It's still up in the air whether I'll use made up dragons in the story. I don't want too many dragons for I believe it'll kind of ruin the uniqueness of the three ones Daenerys had hatched. Maybe those two you mentioned will be included, though the fact they vanished likely means they're dead by the time of canon. We'll have to see.


	12. Chapter 11: The Blood Red Field

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 11: The Blood Red Field**

* * *

"There they are. Do you see them, lad?" Ser Tristan Rivers asked, mounted at the head of twenty of the Golden Company's best riders.

I reined in my horse and stared down the hill at the expansive flat plains where the opposing host awaited us. They were camped beside a small-town split in half by a stream with a narrow bridge connecting the two sides. Compared to our camp which was organised and fortified enough to make the Romans proud, their own was chaotic with tents having been erected chaotically like pale mushrooms after a night of heavy rain, sprouting haphazardly with no organisational skills to speak of. There were no fortifications and sentries were few and far between.

 _How hard would it be to organise a night-time raid?_

"How many do you think there are?" asked Jon Connington who stood at my side.

I stared for a moment. Ser Tristan had been teaching me how to best count the numbers of a foe from a distance. "Ten thousand? Give or take. Looks to be near our number."

Connington hummed, his lined face screwed in thought. "They may number just slightly less. But it's more than I expected. Maybe nine? I'd say it's closer to eight thousand."

"I'd agree with that," Myles commented before he pointed to the side. "Look at the cavalry over there. Essarian light horse and Westerosi destriers. We should expect heavy lancers and mounted skirmishers armed with bows and javelins for distance, axes and swords for close quarters. Stormcrows on their left, Long Lances on their right. Not only them, but Company of the Rose as well. That's another two hundred horsemen. Altogether, their army numbers five-hundred-and-a-thousand cavalry. That's a lesser estimate."

"The Long Lances . . ." I hesitated. "Look at the ones over there. They're outfitted as—"

"Volantene cataphracts," Rivers finished.

"Crap."

I had a conversation with Melio about the finest cavalry in the world. The Dothraki had been mentioned but dismissed due to their lack of armour and discipline. I put forth the suggestion it was Westerosi knights and the mercenary commander concluded that on a flat open field that was the case. He'd noted, though, that there was another mounted force in the known world that could deal a serious blow to the Golden Company. Volantene _kataphractoi_ were more lightly armoured that their Westerosi peers but were capable of using curved bows. They were, however, exceedingly well-trained from the citizens of Volantis. Between an equal number of knights and cataphracts, Melio was of the opinion that given room to manoeuvre, the Volantene horsemen would slowly whittle away the Westerosi heavy horse whilst taking minimal losses. And considering the fact that Westerosi armies didn't field that many horse archers, they'd have little support in such an engagement. Whether the Long Lances could compare to their Volantene cousins was a question we may soon find the answer to.

I took a sip of air to calm my nerves and stared at the army banners assembled to meet us. Haldon had been giving me lessons about the various free companies in Essos and the six assembled before us. Stormbreakers formed the centre, the Company of the Rose and Cat beside them and cavalry assembled on the flanks. Mingling among them were the Myrish Company with their finely crafted crossbows at the ready.

Myles Blackheart grunted; eyes remained fixed on the force before us. "With their number and unit composition, I would not like to engage them if needs must."

I could understand. Their cavalry outnumbered ours and would fight most effectively on the wide open plain. It didn't help that Myrish archers were renowned the world over for their skill, and their weaponry could drop a fully armoured knight. Myrish crossbows would be essential in dealing with Westeros, I knew. Their outfit surely took pride in it, even their banner was a crossbow.

"Their archers will form before their main line, correct?" I asked.

"That's if we engage them," Jon muttered. "It would be best to meet them on more desirable terrain. These hills will negate their cavalry."

Myles didn't answer, just continuing to stare.

"But the Myrmen?"

"They'll form up and shoot before withdrawing behind their lines when we get close enough or they take sufficient casualties. They'll seek to soften up our lines. We outrange them, however. Black's Summer Islanders and Westerosi longbowmen can shoot further."

Out of all them, I had a nagging feeling it was the Myrmen who would be the greater threat despite being the smallest force present. While the Myrish Company looked disciplined, the rest of the army didn't look all that well-equipped. Many wore leather armour – which was less effective than gambeson – and rusted mail. The officers stood out like sore thumbs with all their gold and cloaks sewn with copper disks. Knowing how Black Balaq operated, he would snipe those officers and damage their command structure – which would be faulty and disorganised at the best of times. The fact there were so many sellsword companies working together, and hopefully without a centralised command, benefited us even more. With all the various rivalries between them, their pride and personal ambitions would get in the way and hinder their ability to cooperate.

"We can take them," I said confidently.

"We will, but not without cost," Myles mused. "Should their cavalry overwhelm ours and force them from the field, we'll be in a spot of trouble."

By "a spot of trouble," he meant we could be crushed. Despite my love for phalanx formations and preference for infantry, they were weak to attacks against their flanks and rear. Should our cavalry be overwhelmed, no doubt our reserve would be thrown against them. Unfortunately, they were in no place to deal with more mobile horsemen. I knew the value of a mounted fighting force. "Perhaps we should meet with them."

They turned to me, some even looked perplexed.

"You need to know your enemy to defeat them. Perhaps we can have a few choice words with the captains at different times. We could just demand they surrender, or maybe offer them bribes and the opportunity to turn cloak in return for the spoils. Why allow them to be united when we can divide their little alliance and make them more suspicious of each other?"

"You seek to share the spoils?" Rivers didn't look happy with my suggestion.

"I never said we'll work together. Just give the _illusion_ we could be. As long as they think their allies may potentially backstab them, all the better for us."

Myles looked at me for a moment, then grinned slyly. "You cheeky lad. It could possibly work."

I returned the grin impishly. "A house divided against itself cannot stand. We invite them for drinks, we talk and have a laugh. A few hours apart and not together. Maybe Maar's spies can spread some rumours around their camp."

"Good point. But what if they don't come though?" Connington asked.

"We're the Golden Company. They are sellswords and I doubt those who fight for coin would be willing to die. They'll seek to profit and we can offer that." _Doesn't mean we have to follow through though_. "I'm sure they'll use this opportunity to gauge our strength as well." I chuckled. "They'll be scared."

At Toyne's command, a messenger was sent forth.

 **...**

"Are these cushions really necessary?" I asked Myles as the servants prepared the tent to meet our most treasured guests. "I mean . . . this isn't a Lyseni pleasure den, you know."

He laughed as the wicker carpet was rolled out and thrown over the top was a much softer carpet that was part of a ransom for a Tyroshi noble. Tables were brought in with bowls of fruit and glasses of fine Arbor Gold. "This is diplomacy, lad. You need to impress them. Show off our wealth and power and seduce them with various trappings. Harry encouraged it and I trust the man like a brother because, in many ways, we are. We grew up together, fought together. He knows people and I trust his judgement."

Harry fought? _Ah, you learn something new every day_.

After an hour or so, Jon Connington entered with the three captains of the Stormcrows. They wore black feathers on their polished helms, and all claimed to be equal in honour and authority. I stood at Myles Toyne's side while he sat atop a plush cushion stuffed with goose down. While my eyes studied our guests for anything to use against them, they barely gave me a glance. I almost felt insulted despite knowing it was the Essosi custom to treat everything but the highest lord like a piece of furniture.

The Stormcrows captains were a Yunkai'i, a Qartheen and a Tyroshi. It made me want to think of a joke of them walking into a bar. This was the exact same setup Daenerys had, if I remembered correctly. Prendahl na Ghazn was a thickset Ghiscari with a broad face and dark hair combed into bull's horns. I almost snorted in laughter at that. Only the harsh sideways look from Joncon stopped me and probably saved my life. Sallor the Bald was a Qartheen with skin like milk, pale eyes and a scar running down his cheek. He was dressed in pale blue and yellow silks under a silver breast plate with pieced nipples and his cloak was sewn with copper scales crusted with precious stones.

Then there was the incredible flaunting peacock himself: Daario fucking Naharis. Bloody hell, the sight of him was almost enough to break my composure. His beard was dyed blue, as was his hair. But where I could work the look, he looked positively foolish. His beard was long and cut into three prongs while his curled moustache – which reminded me of an Italian chief stereotype – was dyed garish gold. His clothes were all painfully bright yellow and laced up with Myrish lace that spilled from his collar and cuffs. His doublet was sewn with brass medallions in the shape of dandelions and the high leather boots that reached his thighs were covered with ornate goldwork. His belt was made up of a chain of gilded rings (because why wouldn't it be?) and folded on them were a pair yellow suede gloves, stilettos with hilts being a matching pair of naked women made of gold – their forms erotised and not at all practical, and on the opposing hip was a Dothraki arakh with a golden handle crusted in jewels. Even his fingernails weren't spared. They were enamelled blue.

In short, he looked a complete and utter wanker.

 _Daenerys, what was wrong with you girl?_ Somehow, even more amusingly was that none of the others seemed to care. Their faces might have been carved from stone. The fact they didn't laugh or even react to the walking breathing joke before us made it all the funnier. At least I could understand why the show changed his appearance. Otherwise it would have turned into a comedy at every scene he entered. I had to take a deep breath and focus my attention elsewhere else my composure may just break. I must have been gawking, because he turned to him, displeasure in his blue-eyes. _Yea, go ahead and judge me when you look like a freaking Loony Tune._

It was the pale-faced Qartheen commander who took a step forward and spoke up. "So this is the great and famous Golden Company. Can't say I'm impressed. What I see is a snivelling boy, a cluster of old men and—"

"What I see are opportunist bandits who dare call themselves soldiers," Myles said with a smile so false it was patronising. "How far you've fallen, Stormcrows, that you're among an alliance with . . . who in charge?" Blackheart cocked his head, not looking at all impressed. "Gylo Rhegan? Bloodbeard? Not that it matters who leads you sorry lot. It isn't all good a group to be perfectly honest. Who have you got fighting alongside you? A rabble of lesser companies who will break before they even see blood. They'll run for the hills at first opportunity, leaving you in the dust if you don't run first. What's your number again?"

I gave Myles a sideways glance. "Five hundred light cavalrymen, fighting against ten thousand of the Golden Company. You crows will run at the first sound of thunder."

Daario must have become my enemy in that short moment because he turned to me with nothing but pure malice. "Who are you to speak to us that way, _boy_? Who are you but another one of Toyne's boy whores to bugger up the arse?"

Connington stepped forward, hand clasping the handle of his sword, but Myles gestured him to stop by raising his hand. His face was hard. "They come under a banner of truce, Jon. I will have no blood shed here, but neither will I accept you to insult my squire who _shouldn't_ have spoken up."

Daario spat on the ground. "There's your apology."

 _Civil_. I rolled by eyes. _Why're we dealing with this bunch of drivelling fools?_

The Ghiscari grimaced and his voice was a heavy drawl. "We stand beside our loyal brothers in arms. None of us will flee."

"Sure, sure. But when the swords are out, I doubt your friends are true friends. If there's one thing that's certain with the lot of you, it's that you can trust them all to stab you in the back at first opportunity. I would too, if I didn't hold this thing people call integrity," Myles took a sip of his cup, letting the silence linger for a moment. "Even if my employers have the combined wits of a goat."

Daario spat once more, further ruining the expensive carpet. "We don't need them. Oh, some will break, but the rest of us will remain stalwart. No matter, we don't need much to destroy you. For while you may speak pretty words and coat yourselves in gold, you'll flee when the battle turns against you. We are what you should be afraid of."

"No one in their right mind should be afraid of you," Jon Connington commented wryly.

In truth, the thing I was afraid of Daario Naharis was him giving me fashion tips. I just couldn't stop staring. It was like watching a car crash. You wanted to pull your eyes away, but you couldn't.

"We'll see you eat those words in the field of battle." Daario's eyes turned from Jon to me. "Perhaps I'll hand that boy to my men before I kill him in front of you. He looks like he needs a good hard raping."

 _What the fuck?_

Myles Blackheart had to physically restrain Jon for the threat and others pulled out their weapons. I had a hand on my sword more out of newly created instinct then anything.

Prendahr grunted, his hand on the handle of his curved sword as a response to everyone else. "You lot are acting like children. We came here to discuss business, not exchange insults. Now, Andal, tell us why we should back off?"

Myles let go of Jon and looked at them sternly. All the false warmth was gone and now it was the face of a man who could stare into the jaws of hell and make the devil blink. "Once battle is joined, we don't ask for any quarter and nor will you receive any. Scamper away or join me. The latter will ensure you a share of plunder. Fight against us and your reward will be death." He turned to Daario. "I'll make sure of it."

Sallor glanced at each of his fellow captains. "Your words are gold covered in poison and make no sense. We outnumber you in cavalry. We'll smash you."

"You mean to insult me with your words?" Myles asked, turning to him, looking taller than everyone in the tent despite his short height. "I would return it, if I considered you more than vermin." He met each of their stares in turn. "This is the Golden Company, a fellowship of exiles, not a cluster of beggars who form your sorry excuse of an army."

The pale man spat. Blimmin' hell, it'll take a while scrubbing those stains out. "We will break you, and we will bleed you. You lost whenever you looked at Westeros and you'll loss now. You'll die screaming."

They left angry.

Jon Connington turned to me. "Young Griff are . . . are you crying?" He sounded more surprised than anything.

My tears must have released trying to hold in my laughter. "There is just so much beauty in the world, you know." Then the dam bust, filling the air with my laughter. "If their competence is like their fashion sense, I swear this battle is as good as won." I didn't fear them, not in the slightest. This battle was going to be a cakewalk.

"And you helped fuck it up, _boy_ ," Myles turned to me, rage across his features. "Best learn to keep your mouth shut and not look at them like they draped themselves in fucking paint. I allowed you here to see how negotiation worked. You didn't need to say anything or do anything, yet you failed regardless. I'll give you one more chance. Just one. If you fuck it up, I swear I'll scourge you before the entire Company, Blackfyre or no. In the name of the Father Above and all the Seven, I bloody swear it."

That wiped the smile off my face.

Throughout the rest of the day, the other captains came forward either as groups or individuals. The commander of the Long Lances looked more craftsman than a hardened veteran and, like Homeless Harry, was a businessman to the core. The towering Northman in charge of the Company of the Rose who, despite claiming loyalty to his 'friends,' seemed among the most eager to save the lives of his men by _withdrawing_ to a more desirable location to the rear, which seemed another way of saying "let's get out of 'ere, lads." The commander of the Company of the Cat – who formed the largest force which gave him default command, was interested in blood and loot and battle. Excluding Bloodbeard, they were more civil than the Stormcrows and this time I didn't laugh, nor even speak.

Regardless of what was said, the sellswords were going to fight. That night I remained awake, dreading the things to come.

 **...**

Groggy, I threw away my itchy blankets and sat up. The horns sounded through the camp, urgent and angry, a shrill sound to wake up every man and beast and usher in them a bloodlust to be unleashed upon the enemy. Outside the canvas walls of the tent were the clatter of spears, the clamber of pots, the whinny of horses and the curses of angry men.

 _My first proper battle_ , I thought, my body going rigid. _It's finally happened. I might die again today . . . maybe I'll be resurrected once more . . ._

Around me, Serpent Squad were up and ready. None of them were inexperienced to fighting, having fought on the streets of Volantis and some before even that. The lot of them were equipping themselves and doing any last minute things like Rickard praying to the Warrior to give him strength.

Taking deep breaths to calm my nerves, I put on a padded tunic, a thicker gambeson, mail hauberk and coif, brigandine, a gorget to protect my throat, lobstered greaves and gauntlets and finally a sallet helm. It was plain armour, dark and unornate. I looked just like any other soldier on the field. At least this way I won't grab their attention for I didn't carry any bling for them to pry from me. On the other hand, there was no chance for me to be ransomed. I considered that extra motivation to fight all the harder.

"You know, Griff, if I die, weep for me," Damon said as he flicked his curly hair back.

"Only if you weep for me," I replied, tying the buckles and clasps and making sure they wouldn't come loose.

We helped each other with our armour when we could and when that was done, I buckled on my studded belt, heavy with the weight of a bastard sword and dirk. Then I picked up my main weapon: a cavalry hammer on an extended pole, with a hammerhead on one side and curved spike on the other. Arms like these were the best anti-armour available. I didn't know who I was going to face, but this would be useful be it against light or heavy opponents.

I hoped it was enough.

Outside, wisps of pale light streamed through the holes in the blanket of dark clouds that seemed so fitting for the mood. Men and horses were rushing through the pre-dawn chill, saddles were being thrown atop mounts, wagons loaded, and campfires extinguished. All the while, the horns continued to blow. Knights and mounted lancers vaulted atop snorting steeds with more grace than people would expect, and attendants rushed to push long poles into their hands. Men-at-arms rushed through, still putting on their armour as they ran.

Going through the encampment, it didn't take long to find Haldon and Septa Lemore. While my favourite Dornish septa wore her white-woollen garbs, the Halfmaester wore armour – which surprised me. Haldon wore a kettle helm, with mail armour and a dull breastplate over the top. While I stopped to give them a few words, my friends continued to the assembling lines.

"I didn't know you'd be fighting, Halfmaester," I grinned nervously, being pushed in the river of men. We'd been standing in the middle like an island before deciding to get to the side so we wouldn't get trampled.

"It's likely I'll find myself involved, Young Griff," the Halfmaester said, looking me up and down. "I didn't join your fellowship to fight, but I found myself doing so regardless." He sighed. "I do have iron links, after all."

"Iron. That's warcraft, isn't it?"

"Aye. Military history, logistics and strategy," he told me. "Not fighting. Though it's not unknown for some maesters to pick up the sword."

"Just don't die then."

"My life matters little in the grand scheme of things, Young Griff. You die and our life's mission would be all in vain."

"Great. Place those expectations on my shoulders why don't ya?"

Septa Lemore smiled softly, though it was clear how worried and uncomfortable she was. "You look like a warrior. Like your ancestors. No doubt your mother would be proud of you if she was standing here right now. I'm proud of you, too, Young Griff. I know we've been preparing you and though it hasn't gone the way it was meant to be, I . . ." she sniffled. "I'm proud of you. You're like a son to me." Without wasting a breath, she embraced me. I was caught by surprised and froze as she wrapped her arms around me.

Knowing there was a chance I wouldn't be returning to camp when the battle was done, I returned the hug. Though covered in cold metal, Septa Lemore didn't seem to mind. "I'll return, Lady Septa. Don't you worry."

I felt her smile and she pulled away. There were tears in her eyes and she blinked them away. "You were always confident. I prayed all last night for the Seven to give you strength this day. I prayed for the Warrior to give you courage, the Crone to light your future path and the Smith to ensure your armour and arms won't break. I prayed to the Father to watch over you and the Mother to protect one of her children. I prayed you'll return to me, to all of us." She kissed my forehead then, her lips lingered for a moment before pulling away. "Be careful. Take care of yourself."

"He won't be doing that on his own," came a familiar sound. I looked to the side and saw Duck grinning from ear to ear as he followed the exiled Lord Connington who looked down at me from atop a splendid bay horse.

Despite not being the best, the former lord of Griffin's Roost was a renowned swordsman in his younger years and had since become hardened, having returned to the Golden Company and sparring with Myles Toyne nearly every afternoon. Standing before me, he looked every inch a fighter. Jon wore dark-grey plate mail, basic but obviously high quality and in the flair of Essosi craftsmanship. Over that he wore a tabard of two combatant griffins countercharged on a white and red field. Duck, by contrast, looked little different than me. He wore a brigandine and carried a heater shield on his back. Under his arm was a great helm and there was a warhammer on his belt – his favourite weapon and a fitting one for a smith.

Duck grinned at me. "You think I'll leave my friend to care for himself?" He snorted a laugh. "I'm going with you. I know you loved to be in the thick o' things. Why not now? I'm to rein you in."

"I don't need to be reined in." _The opposite in fact_. I bowed my head respectfully. "I wouldn't mind someone watching my back. Thank you, Ser Duck."

He punched me cheerfully on the shoulder. "Why wouldn't I stand by your side? You're my friend."

 _A friend . . ._ maybe because I wasn't really Young Griff, but those words left a sour taste in my mouth. "And you are to. Those sellswords will soon learn they can't match the power of friendship!"

Jon Connington scoffed. "We have a battle to fight. You and your squad are to join me and the other knights and squires on the left flank. Rolly and others handpicked by Blackheart will ensure your survival."

 _Can't have the Blackfyre dying before he invades Westeros, now can we?_ "I thank you, father. May I ask who we're to fight against?"

"The Long Lances." He looked me up and down. "You're to mount up. We'll serve as the hammer to the infantry's anvil."

I paused. "But I thought . . . I thought—"

"Do I have any objections?"

"N-no. No, ser."

I gave a salute, said what could be my final goodbyes to Haldon and Lemore and followed Jon Connington to the field. My stomach formed a hard knot that made me want to throw up last night's meal. As we left the camp, the sky began to clear with pale crimson rays breaking through the clouds. The western sky remained a deep purple speckled with stars and the east a brilliant orange that looked like it was on fire. _This may be the last sunrise I ever see_. I almost laughed. My other death had been completely unexpected, and I felt nothing or at least I could remember nothing. Hopefully my next one would be just as painless should it ever come.

In the early morning dawn, both armies assembled to meet each other in the field.

Before this day, both sides had stood their ground. Due to the nature of battle, neither army desired to abandon its position to make the first move. The sellsword coalition controlled the wide empty plains that was the best terrain for their cavalry while the Golden Company planted themselves atop a collection of rough hills that benefited our nine-thousand infantry. The hilltops had been fortified which made the further diminished the coalitions willingness to attack. As such, neither side moved and instead just waited patiently.

It had continued like that for more than a week.

It didn't mean our forces never engaged each other, however. While the main armies stood their ground, both sides sent their more mobile units to scout, probe enemy positions and supply their forces. Thus began the intricate game between groups fighting to get the upper hand in the battle of attrition. We set men on their foraging parties just as they did to us. The longer we waited, the more crucial this would be. It was also a delicate balance. The more men sent to forage and guard would ensure more food for us and less for them but, at the same time, it would leave less men at camp and should that be weakened enough, it'll allow the coalition to descend upon us. As the days dragged on, the skirmishes grew increasingly heated and Myles authorised the burning of whatever we couldn't get out hands on to ensure it remained out of our enemy's hands. Not to mention poisoning water sources.

But now the wait was over, and the proper battle was to begin.

As we shored up our lines, the coalition forces assembled before us. Beneath hundreds of colourful banners, serjeants harangued their soldiers into a semblance of order. There was something vindictively satisfying about their lack of cohesion. Unlike us, they didn't have a unified command structure and instead had a council where everything was decided by popular vote – at least in theory. Maar's spies reported that both Myr and Tyrosh had sent representatives to order their hired swords to advance. The army they collected cost a fortune and they didn't want to be losing money with the army just sitting there and absorbing coin like a sponge. That had been the only thing to get them into action. Their military council, reportedly, was swept up by bickering and fragmentation that had weakened their unity. That and our attacks on their foragers would hopefully cripple morale. Still, their army was an impressive sight as they matched forward, and we assembled below the hill to goad them. They'd taken the bait and their leaders decided to go with one of the classical formations of a line of infantry in the centre and cavalry on the wings: Stormcrows on the right, Long Lances on the left.

To counter their army's composition, Myles had formed his battle lines.

The Golden Company had been split up in three groups. From afar, Captain-general Myles Toyne commanded from atop the hill, riding a grey stallion with a snow-white mane. He was armoured in the same dull and scratched plate he always wore, underneath that a gambeson and chainmail. Only the heraldry on his shield displayed him as someone of prominence. On his right-hand side was Harry Strickland and on his left was a squire riding atop a white mare and holding the banner of the Golden Company peaked with gilded skulls. The gold banner was flowing strongly, snapping with the force of the wind. He wasn't alone though, with him was a reserve force numbering two thousand men. Myles was a commander who stood at the rear, on the high ground where he could watch the battle unfold below him and commit forces to where they were needed most. With so many men waiting atop the hill, eight thousand would engage on the flat terrain, putting us on near equal footing to our enemies.

In the centre, Ser Marq Mandrake had been handed command. Pikemen formed the centre in blocks eight men deep that should hold the line and were invincible to cavalry from a frontal assault. Supporting them were heavy infantry armed with shorter spears, swords, axes and hammers and a variety of polearms. Standing at the front, with arrows planted in the ground and quivers on their belts, stood the archers under the stern eyes of Black Balaq. They were lightly armoured, with one-third using crossbows, another wielding the double-curved-and-sinew bows of the east, and the rest were Westerosi longbowmen. Light infantry supported them, with javelins and slings and other throwing weapons. They'll soften the up the opposition and pull back when the enemy approached.

The wings were all cavalry. The Golden Company's entire cavalry force of one thousand was sent to hold the Stormcrows and Long Lances in place. Four hundred knights in heavy armour and an equal number of squires under the experienced eyes of Tristan Rivers. They stood on the left to deal with the greater number of enemy horse and were massed together like a great iron fist. On the opposite flank was the smaller number of Essosi cataphracts whose silver scales dazzled in the sun and were beautiful to look upon. Their olive-skinned commander was a tough but fair commander, expecting the best of them, which apparently included polishing their armour till they could blind their enemies. While the knights were an iron fist to smash into the enemy, the cataphracts had lancers and heavy cavalry archers working in unison; which involved the mounted archers shooting the horses of their opposition and letting the lancers trample them into the dirt.

But that wasn't all. There was then the pride and joy of Homeless Harry Strickland: two dozen war elephants which had been split evenly on the flanks to panic the coalitions' mounts. Horses hated the smell of elephants and always panicked unless they were exceptionally well-trained. I grinned at the sight of them. They were massive grey behemoths, armoured with crested headpieces and suits of scales. On their backs were howdah's manned by archers, javelinmen and sellswords armed with long spears.

All in all, the Golden Company was an impressive war machine. Which was a shame as our opposition was anything but. It did instil in me a measure of confidence. Ours was the finest military in the Free Cities, the best mercenary company in a continent of mercenaries. It wasn't completely at ease though. Despite having been trained to fight for the last few months nearly every day since waking up in Essos, I felt uneasy. My heart beat rapidly in my throat while my forehead was cold with sweat.

"Best put your visor down," Duck told me.

I was about to respond when the rumble of trumpets drowned out my words from across the field. I turned from Duck to the army that had shown itself to be a very colourful rabble. Their drums were so near I could feel the beat creep under my skin and my hands twitched.

"The Long Lancers," Jon Connington muttered. I nodded, staring at the white lance on their yellow banners. "That's their largest force of cavalry."

"And commanded by a craven," Duck finished.

The Long Lances were not considered the biggest threat. When we met in the tent, Gylo Rhagan looked more a shoemaker than a soldier, a man who spoke little and when he did, nothing but murmurs. _Maybe he should have a mouse on his banner instead of a lance_. The cavalry force was not that reputed either, having a lowly reputation and more like to flee once the battle turned against them. Still, they outnumbered us and, should we be overwhelmed, would prove a formidable challenge for the infantry. Eight hundred on their own didn't seem much on paper when thinking about the size of the armies involved– ok, it was a lot, but they were mounted and mobile and a threat to any force on foot. Alongside their pale-yellow banner was the crossbow and a rising sun of the Myrish Company and their elite crossbowmen that formed the city watch.

As they closed the distance, I felt a sickness in my gut ready to retch. This would be my first proper fight I'll ever be in, not drilling or sparring with some mates. An actual battle with people trying to kill me. They didn't care who I was, nor would they know. I was simply another soldier for them to kill.

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and then came the shrill sound of our trumpets.

The Long Lances' trot turned to a canter, much more mobile than their infantry and outpacing the Company of the Rose. It would be immature to separate their two forces and leave them unsupported from the other. Still, the field was suited to cavalry. The ground was flat and dry, broken only by shallow hills and the fences of pastures which broke before the weight of their formation. The sellswords shouted and cursed with cries eager with bloodlust.

But soon that confidence turned to cries when Black Balaq's arrows fell upon them like hail. The lancers didn't falter, however. At this distance, the Company's archers could do little. Most arrows either missed their mark or failed to penetrate. As soon as the first volley was released, archers were fitting arrows onto their bowstrings and knocking their crossbows.

As to support their friends, the Myrish Company charged forwards only to find themselves in turn be bled. Black Blalaq and half his Summer Islanders let loose a volley of accurate arrows that ripped through the tightly packed Myrmen. Under fire, they split up into loose formation, planted painted shields into the ground and took cover. _Pavise crossbowmen. Smart_. The Long Lances had been dissuaded but were now back on the attack. Going from canter to gallop, they charged straight at us. They were bloody quick, faster than I'd like to believe, shouting and cursing as they formed a wedge like a hedgehog bristling with steel spikes.

I slid my hand up the handle of my lance and felt something touch my shoulder. I turned and saw Duck fidgeting beside me. "Young Griff, if this is the last thing I need to tell you, let it be this. Do not hesitate. Not even once. Use what I taught you and stick close to me. Don't play the hero. You need to stay alive. That's the most important thing. Understand?"

I met his eyes hidden beneath his helm. "Un-understood."

"We'll get through this."

"I hope we do."

" _KNIGHTS AND SQUIRES OF THE GOLDEN COMPANY, FORM UP!_ " Jon bellowed. " _BENEATH THE GOLD—_ "

"— _THE BITTERSTEEL!_ " the knights and squires roared, the sound utterly deafening.

I didn't remember when he shouted charge, nor did I remember kicking my courser into action. I only remember closing the distance, forming a wedge with Jon Connington at the tip and me right beside him. There was the thundering of hooves and the war cries of eight hundred men behind me.

Arrows arced overhead towards the mounted lancers. A few died but those were petty losses and the rest gracefully leapt over the corpses and moved all the faster. We kicked our mounts into a gallop and more volleys were sent at the Long Lances to soften them up for us. A second and a third. Jon Connington made sure to manoeuvre us in a better position so the archers would be of more use. The third volley had been the bloodiest.

While I didn't consider myself a good rider – certainly not as much as those riding alongside me – I felt confident on the concept of remaining in the saddle as we smashed into the Long Lances like an iron fist against a soft stomach. Our lances threw sellswords from their mounts if not go through them. My own burst right through one man's chest and the guy behind. Letting it drop, I pulled out my hammer. Inside my gloves, my hands were slick with sweat, but I didn't care. As soon as I smelled blood, my mind became clear. Serene. Gone was the confusion and chaos and fear. My breaths became steady and my reactions became faster.

The next man I killed wasn't even looking at me. I struck him in the back of his bald, unprotected head. The hammer carved his skull. Blood and brains splattered my visor, seeping through the gaps of my helm. It was a coppery taste, not that I cared to notice. Before the man dropped from his saddle, I turned to another. One sellsword charged me with a curved sword high above his head. He swung in a deadly arc and I rose my shield. The blade bit deep into the wood. Stuck, I twisted my shield and left him open. My spike punctured right through the copper scales and the chest underneath. Copper was soft and the flesh underneath even softer. _That armour's as useful as nipples on a bird_.

I wasn't thinking. It was all instinct. I felt nothing: no anger, no hated, nor any concern for the people I was maiming if not killing. The only thing I felt was the adrenaline. I saw ginger Symeon be thrown from his horse and trampled beneath the hooves of a Golden Company knight, Damon was struck in the side of the helm with an axe but killed the man with his sword after a brutal exchange. Duck and others ensured the only ones that concerned me were the ones directly in front and my armour did its job of protecting me from their strikes. It was different from the training yard. I felt no need to restrain myself and this time I was filled with more determination. It felt glorious. I was grinning, giddy.

 _Parry, block, smash. Keep moving_. A man, dismounted, lunged aggressively and snatched the reins from my hand. I didn't think. On reflex my hammer formed a sizeable dent in his halfhelm. As soon as that was done, I kicked my horse forward and found another target barely an arm's length away repeatedly striking Jon Waters' shield. I struck him, the spike of my hammer going through the back of his head. It was surprising how effective the pick was in combat. The only problem was pulling it out. I couldn't. The man fell and took my weapon with him. With no alternative, I pull out my backup sword. It wasn't as effective, but soon the blade was coated crimson.

Eventually we broke the Long Lances, punching through their formation where they turned tail and ran. Those who weren't fast enough were cut down. Turning around, I saw the infantry had finally engaged each other. The pikemen in the centre remained strong, holding back the Stormbreakers and, if anything, gained ground as they pushed forward. The men on their left flank, beset by the Company of the Rose, were getting forced back and at risk of being overwhelmed.

I looked up at Myles who remained atop his hill, eyes fixed on the battlefield. I couldn't see what was happening on the opposing wing, but I doubted Melio was having the same success we had. _Why hasn't he moved his men?_

Jon Connington opened his visor. His face was as red as his tabard and he was gasping for breath. " _REFORM THE LINE! REFORM THE LINE! STRIKE THE FLANK! KNIGHTS OF THE COMPANY, CHARGE!_ "

Forming another wedge, we broke through the unprotected flank of the Roses. Engaged with infantry at the front and being smashed by a cavalry change from the side, many dropped their weapons and fled. My mount was bloody as we cut through their lines and encircled a great portion. With nowhere to go, the Roses either fought all the harder like a pack of starving wolves or dropped their arms and begged for mercy. Caught up in our bloodlust, we simply cut them down where they stood. My arm ached from the weight of my weapon which grew heavier with every swing.

Somehow, amidst the fighting, I found myself on the ground. My horse had collapsed a few feet away, still alive despite the spear halfway through its neck. Half staggering and heaving, I was met with a man mace in hand. He was tall and sturdy built, wearing a long chainmail hauberk and gauntlets of steel but his helm was gone, and his cheek looked like they'd been torn off by a dog . . . or possibly a horse.

Grunting in pain, I swung but he parried effortlessly and slammed his shoulder into mine. I stumbled back, slashing the air clumsily to ward him off. " _Die, boy!_ " He lunged and I stepped back, his mace smashing my shield. I realised that man was stronger and quicker than I was. Where was Duck and the others? " _Die!_ " I threw my shield up just in time before his mace slammed into it. The painted wood exploded under the force of the blow and I felt the impact through my shield, a force so great it made me think my arm would snap. I cried out in pain and the man got in close, so close I could taste his breath and he hit me across the helm. My head rang and I tripped on something. I didn't know whether it was a stone or a corpse, but I was on my back, the world spinning around me. I felt urge to vomit. I was weak, too weak to move and the man stood over me, grinning like a fool. "Die," he repeated and lifted his mace up high, about to bring it down on my skull . . .

Then a shadow lunged forward. Both figures were thrown into the ground. The shadow was smaller but built and they circled each other, slashing and cursing. My eyes flickered and focused. The face was familiar. _Jon?_ Jon Waters. He'd lost his helm and was bleeding from a savage cut to the forehead and his dark hair was matted, but he had a savage look to his face I'd never seen before. There was nothing graceful about those two, it was savage and desperate, but it was Jon who came out on top. It was Jon who elbowed the Northman in the face and cleaved his skull in two. Turning to me, he grabbed my arm and hauled me up.

"A life for a life," he grunted, clearly in pain but with a thin façade of good cheer. "I owe—"

A flash of agony. The tip of a spear burst through his neck. In that moment, he didn't look like the young man who loved to fight, but a boy. His hand on mine loosened and he brushed the spear point, delicate like stroking a shy animal. Jon fell to the side, shuddering as blood pooled into the ground. He gurgled and struggled, but his body relaxed a moment later.

Sneering at me was the spearman.

I saw red.

Feeling adrenaline pump through my body, I yanked the dirk from my belt and lunged forward, not caring in the slightest for my own survival at this point. My mind had its objective and wouldn't concern itself with anything but that. As was its way.

The man fell back and I was on him, driving the dagger through his neck repeatedly before he even had a chance to drop his spear. I didn't care about anything else. The man tried to fight and claw at my armour but soon his arms dropped to his side, I continued stabbing until his face was naught but ruins.

A meaty hand grasped my shoulder but I pushed it away. It tightened and I was lifted onto my weak legs. The knight was Rolly Duck, and the others who should be protecting me. He had a sword in hand and a battered shield in the other which had once been a duck painted on a field of vivid green, but now brown and coated in blood and beaten from axes, swords and spear points.

The adrenaline still pumping through my body, I threw his hand off me and was replied with a punch that sent me reeling. "Get a hold of yourself," Duck growled, gone was the gentle voice of a friend and in its place was the voice of a soldier.

"That man . . . he . . ."

"I saw it. You killed him. Stabbing him more times won't make him any more dead. You had your revenge." He pushed my sword into my hands. "The battle is not yet done."

He said no more words and turned to face a group of sellswords charging at us. Grabbing my shield from the ground, I faced a slender man in supple leather armour, I brought my shield up to protect myself against his short sword. The sharp metal bit deeply into the edge of the wood where it stuck. Feeling my anger seep away and be replaced an eerie sense of nothingness, I shifted as he tried to yank it out. Not wasting a second, I thrust my sword into his neck. He choked and grabbed his throat to try and stop the bleeding. I ignored him and moved to the next target. He was already dead.

Three more came at us, shouting for our deaths. I didn't know where they came from, nor did I care. All I knew was that they wanted to kill me and wouldn't hesitate to do so. Myles said there was a beast in every man and would wake up at the smell of blood. From a metaphorical sense, I could certainly feel it. A brawny man turned to me, coated in blood but didn't get a step closer before a horseman ran him down. One with a grey shaggy beard was on me within a heartbeat, slashing and thrusting with a longsword. I was too tired, too sluggish. My armour was the only thing keeping me alive. Shouting for help, Rolly came after me, having lost his shield and drove the tip of his sword through the bearded man's unsuspecting neck.

In the distance I could hear the trumpets.

Dazed, I looked around and the battle had moved beyond me. Ravens were circling above, many flying down to feast upon the dead and dying. The coalition's centre was in full rout now, their men throwing down their swords as the pikemen pushed forward, thrusting at whatever resistance remained. The air was filled with arrows again, but they came only from Black Balaq's men. A single hedgehog of oval shields reinforced with iron studs collapsed, crumbling at arrows and the sight of their own men fleeing the field. Over the chaos, their commanders shouted orders for them to either stand and fight or flee if they weren't fleeing with their tail between their legs themselves. I could hear a few stubborn bastions of resistance from where smaller grounds had been surrounded, but the battle was won now. History showed that when one flank broke, the battle would soon be over and the remaining sellswords were not like to stick around.

Turning to Jon Connington who approached and still mounted, I pulled up the visor of my helm. Underneath the thick metal and padding it was baking like an oven. Blood and sweat ran down my face and I was panting like a dog. "Father," I said before letting out a grunt as the agony in my arm erupted once more.

The Griffin studied me before his attention turned to Commander Myles Toyne who galloped forward with his reserve to strike the killing blow. I watched him thunder down the hill with his fresh troops, the golden banner of the Golden Company rippling overhead. That signed the death note where the remnants of the coalitions lines shattered like thin glass beneath a sledgehammer.

Feeling sick once more but unable to hold it in, I collapsed onto my hands and knees and my previous meal came back up, retching half-digested bacon and sausage and bread, all disgusting and horrid with a taste mingling with the coppery sharpness of blood. Just the sight of it made me even sicker. A hand patted my back and Myles Toyne approached, must having noticed Jon Connington waving his over.

"The right flank is crushed," Blackheart called out cheerfully. "You crushed them easily, it must be said. The lancers under Commander Melio had a harder time, however, and took heavier casualties. But I always knew this flank would be more important." He turned to me. "Are you alright, lad?"

"My first battle. Do I look alright?" My words came out as a growl, or a hiss. I didn't really care how it sounded.

He huffed. "You appear to be wounded."

"Good for you to notice, commander." _Would it trouble you to send over a maester or something?_

He didn't seem to like my response but said nothing. Blackheart turned across the field and his voice became soft, soft enough so only I could hear. "Aegon, you are the rightful Lord of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms. What is your decision? What happens now?"

This was a test. It had to be. My answer came straight away. "You know what's best, captain-general. But . . . but ensure our light cavalry hunt them down. If needs be, send a detachment to their camp and secure the war chests which should be divided out to the men as a reward for their service." I looked at the sellswords before me, all begging for mercy from their captors. I remembered Jon and my soul hardened towards them. "Give them no quarter. Let the Seven sort them out." That was the standard issue in medieval warfare. Everyone but the nobility and wealthy were put to the sword. I didn't care for prisoners. I just wanted them all dead for what they did.

I came from twenty-first century Britain and I suppose I should be feeling merciful and follow the Geneva Convention, but rules of war didn't exist here besides very basic ones reserved for the upper classes. Even still, I wasn't feeling particularly merciful, not after slogging my way through everything and killing more people than I'd ever thought possible. _When in Rome, do what the Romans do._ _We don't need useless mouths on legs_.

"Kill them?" Blackheart repeated as to to ensure he that was correct.

I nodded, feeling a tinge of regret before suppressing it. Blackheart gave a brisk nod then rode off without another word. I didn't linger and loot the corpses of all valuables like so many others. Instead I limped back to camp and the butchery continued behind me.

* * *

A/N: Here it is. This has been my first attempt to write a battle in the first person so I hope I hadn't failed in that or in my portrayal of the Golden Company. One thing I'm unsure about was whether I made Aegon too good a fighter in this chapter, seeing as he kept getting his arse kicked and for being a 12-13 year old; but then again, seeing Tyrion's accomplishments in Battle on the Green Fork and the Blackwater and, in the lore, Tygett Lannister was taking down Golden Company knights when he was merely twelve (possibly younger), it may not be completely unreasonable.

It's a fairly long chapter and so I expect there to be some grammar mistakes present I haven't picked up on, in which I apologise. Anyway, tell me what you think. Once more I'd like to thank those who've commented, favourited and followed, or just reading. Just went past 550 followers and 410 favourites which, to be honest, I never thought I'd reach so once more I thank you.

Comments:

coldblue2015: Thanks for the comment and glad you enjoyed it. There's likely to be a magical artefact or two. The Glass Candle was already mentioned, and an egg is likely. Lyra will be a prominent character and I might have a time skip next chapter to just before the first book starts.

BoskiJelen: Blackfyre will be in the story later. Everyone still think's Aegon's just Connington's son still.

NeedingOfLifeGoalDude: Cheers for the review. Myles' fate is uncertain. The fact Aegon's there points he may not die and that whatever happened to him in canon had been avoided. While I initially had a funeral scene, I decided to not put it in and instead end it where it was. The next chapter should have a time skip. While some tech will be made in coming chapters, I don't have any plans for things like gunpowder or steam-powdered technology.

Guest (who refuses to make an account): You're correct about Aegon not knowing the Northern storyline besides some very general information. For my initial read of the series, I skipped all of Jon's chapters due to my interest being the Wot5k rather than the Others, but where I read it later on, Aegon never did so and thus lacks great amounts of information about it. There's also some denial about what's going on.

Fritosaurio: Daenerys will still get eggs so Aegon could get a dragon that way. It won't be sheepstealer, however.

Guest: I should do Swiss pike formations and maybe the tercio. I wouldn't say spears are obsolete for they're cheap, simple and good anti-cavalry weapons. Phalanx may be obsolete in certain circumstances, but this is Westeros and Essos so it should still be useful. I disagree about what you said about mounted archers, they're good for feint attacks and drawing units away.

TMI Fairy: We'll see the Dothraki later on. One can't have a plotline in Essos without them.


	13. Chapter 12: Schemes and Wildfire

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 12: Schemes and Wildfire**

* * *

My chest was heaving as we circled each other in the training room. My padded doublet was drenched with sweat and my limbs ached with pain. Scraping my sword and parrying dagger against each other, I perfected my stance.

Syrio Forel, the former First Sword of the Sealord of Braavos, responded with a sly little smile. "You have improved well, boy." He of slight build, with a beak of a nose and shiny bald head. His padded garbs were plain and in his hands was a slight Braavosi blade not dissimilar to my own.

I had expected to run into other characters at some point, but I never quite expected for my father to hire Syrio Forel to give me lessons in the Braavosi water dance. Seeing that my father used to be one and took great pride in that moment of his life, Illyrio Mopatis desired me to follow his footsteps. While the magister was no longer able to teach me himself, father dearest instead used his wealth and connections to find the best. Syrio was a talented teacher but an extremely demanding one. I didn't object, however. I'd grown accustomed to harsh mentors and it would be best to practise multiple schools of combat.

Three years it had been since waking up in Essos. My new body had grown much in those few years, but it wasn't done yet. I was the midst of a growth spurt and, despite all the athletics and training, my frame remained slim and willowy, though as lanky as only a teenage boy's could be. As such, my grace was something to be desired, but it wasn't as bad as it could be thanks to my tutor and his tendency to give me a whack whenever I failed his expectations. Water dancing did require a certain amount of finesse and that was something which translated well to other things.

"Is this correct?" I asked, raising my slender blade up high, another stance.

Taking a deep breath, my arm grew steady. I'd been with Syrio for a year or so and training with the bravo taught me to use all my senses and hide my own from my enemies. While Galaerys Drahar taught me to fight as a unit, Syrio taught me to fight as an individual. He coached me to analyse my opponents body language and not only guard against them doing the same but manipulate them with false information.

Syrio Forel clicked his tongue as he usually did. He tried to circle me, but I kept my eyes on his and followed his every move. "Good. Getting better."

Not even a heartbeat later, he lunged. I parried and stepped back. His blade came whistling towards me once more. I evaded. Grimacing internally, I withdrew, checking each of his blows as they came. I wasn't much of an offensive fighter, instead waiting for my opponent to make an opening before counterattacking. It was unfortunate that Syrio was a talented dueller and his openings always closed before I could press my attack.

"Left, right, right, left," he said, all lies.

His mouth said one thing, but his eyes said otherwise. I moved right, back, forward and right once more, deflecting each of his blows with practised parries. I sidestepped when he lunged and struck his shoulder. Syrio grimaced and I stepped backwards, flicking my blade through the air, listening to it whistle. Syrio lunged forward again, much faster than before. He was little more than a blur, but I was used to that and the empty room echoed with the song of steel.

This body had impressive reflexes but it wasn't enough. We stopped sparring with his blade pressed against my chest. _Every bruise is a lesson and lessons make us better_. My skin was little more than bruises. For every strike I gave him, my tutor struck my body fivefold.

"You are a dead boy."

"I've already died," I grinned, running a hand through my hair. "I fear nothing."

"All men must die."

"But not today."

Syrio took my sword and placed them back on the rack. "You have much improved, Young Griff Mopatis."

"Thanks only to you, sir," I bowed my head respectfully. "I wouldn't be where I am without you."

Syrio looked me up and down. "My duty as a mentor to turn a student into a sword. A boy into a man."

Nodding, I turned to the balcony overhanging the Pentoshi Bay towards the direction of Westeros. This was perhaps my last lesson with him. Things were proceeding with speed towards the beginning of the books. Daenerys and Viserys were still going from place to place, but it was nearing the time they'll come to Pentos. While I'd allowed canon to continue mostly undisturbed for those two, I did have Illyrio give them light aid to ensure they were taken care of, even if it was from a distance. Soon, Lord Jon Arryn would be assassinated and Eddard Stark selected as Hand by King Robert Baratheon. Reports coming from Varys had me hearing all the important things going on. Despite knowing the major events going to happen, I did need to know when and act accordingly.

With the sparring lesson over, I thanked Syrio for all he'd done and headed to the bathhouse where I stripped myself of my soiled garbs, cleaned the sweat and blood from my body and dressed in a manner more fitting a son of a Pentoshi magister. I chose boots of supple leather, a soft black lambswool tunic and studded belt with a dirk hanging from it, for everyone carried weapons in this world; then proceeded to the makeshift workshop Vaquo headed.

What had once been an extensive guest wing of the magister's manse was now only open to me, my Volantene friend and a few select individuals, not to mention the magister himself, though Illyrio never actually visited which . . . was probably for the best. We had ripped out large portions of the expensive furnishings and it was now devoid of its former splendour. Granted, Illyrio had refused until I decided to beg and use the Bambi eyes on him which was enough to make him retract his position – if somewhat grudgingly. The fact the wing was barely used and Illyrio had such a vast manse meant that any guests could reside in the other wings, which was fortunate else he would've refused outright.

Reaching the closed doors of the wing, I was met with a line of Unsullied. Due to its secrets, this area was perhaps the most well protected part of the manse. Opening the door for me, I thanked them with a nod and passed through. What had been ballrooms, audience chambers and bedrooms had been turned into workshops and labs for the design and creation of new technology. Many things had been made here such as the printing press and my failed attempt at gunpowder that I couldn't get right no matter how much I tried. Speaking of the printing press, after a few years, we only had six operating in Pentos under a company called "Mopatis Printing and Books." It'd been a small but steadily growing business that had its rocky starts with some problem with the machinery – thanks to no small part of me having little knowledge on how to repair any of the problems, and not knowing the best ink and parchment to use. But even with that, we outcompeted everyone who wrote by hand and were forming a monopoly. While the market wasn't as great as it could be, I knew it would grow in time. They were important for my plans in Westeros and being used in crown corporations would not only allow me to cripple the Citadel, but make money doing so.

I found Vaquo in the former ballroom that had been converted into an assembly for the manufacturing of flamethrowers like the ones used by the Byzantines. Due to my Targaryen heritage and the love for craftsmen to decorate their designs, the nozzles were shaped in the likeness of dragons. They were little more than siphon pumps, smaller versions of those mechanical dragons Aegon the Unworthy used. The challenge with these weapons, however, was the chemical they sprayed. The initial tests with wildfire had a nasty tendency to explode without rhyme or reason but, after some careful tinkering from the Myrish Alchemist's Guild, we made a more stable formula. It was less powerful, but it'd been a sacrifice made for reliability sake. My Volantene friend stood in the centre, surrounded by Myrish Wisdoms and craftsmen. Flamethrowers weren't the only way to use wildfire in battle, I knew. We also had grenades made of ceramic and would function as a more destructive version of molotov cocktails that I hoped would serve well against tightly packed formations.

"Griff," Vaquo said politely. Even though he was in charge, Vaquo was very hands off and just allowed everyone to do what they needed without much in the way of interference. "Come to inspect my children, have you?"

"I have," I said, looking around as everyone was busy working with their heads down. Just the way I liked it. "May I ask how many have been built?"

The foreman, a towering Myrman with dark-olive skin, a broad nose and black watery eyes, answered He wore padded leather and looked more like a dockyard brute than anyone else. "We're ahead of our quota," he said with obvious pride. "Sixty flamethrowers this week. This includes the foundries in the city."

I responded with a nod. While Pentos was where we made most of our specialised equipment, the wildfire was crafted solely in Myr and I desired to head there to see the quantity. It did take some convincing for the Alchemists to change their substance and many people died trying to perfect it. The price was worth paying if it meant the Golden Company didn't burst into green flames.

"How many are needed? Do we have a surplus?"

"Surplus," the foreman proudly declared. "Total requirements are a thousand. We have that and an extra half stockpiled. Magister Illyrio says we should sell some of them."

I shook my head. "We won't sell these. We _can't_ sell any of these. You know they need to be kept secret. Regardless, we need spares should any break down," I stated, folding my arms. "Have you tested their reliability? I don't want the men to use faulty equipment."

He shook his head.

"Then I'd suggest you do so." We tested them out with water to see how far they could spray and if there were any problems with manufacturing. They didn't spray that far, but seeing they were designed for defensive operations like atop fortifications, it would do. They were fearsome weapons and the fear they should create would be greater than the damage.

The man hurried off.

"I've something I want to show you," Vaquo said, trying hard to suppress a grin and failing miserably.

"More experimenting?" I asked with a raised eyebrow. "What is it this time?"

"Let me show you."

With a giddy look, the Volantene led me to his own chambers which was protected with an impressive assortment of locks. He was a secret man, was Vaquo. He liked his privacy, but I knew he was nothing if not . . . well, I wouldn't say loyal. Vaquo merely lacked political ambition, and financial, nor did he seem interested in either men or women. He just liked creating things be it great and small. That seemed to satisfy him.

Lighting a candle, he went to the corner and pulled off a heavy blanket. Underneath looked to be one of those early fire pumps used during the Great Fire of London. The pump was large and promised to send forth a great torrent. It was crudely crafted and clearly not a finished piece.

I looked at it, then at him.

Vaquo was grinning from ear to ear. He was even doing that thing where he was standing on the tips of his toes and lightly bumping up and down like an excited child. "This is only a design. A prototype. The one I plan is even larger. It'll be mounted of a ship, powered by a pump that'll push down on the substance in the reservoir. I've even improved the design of the nozzle. It should be under greater pressure and therefore spray further. Perfect for naval engagements, you'll see, seeing as you plan to invade Westeros." His eyes looked feverish. Not in the way Aerys or Cersei got feverish when they saw wildfire, but just the chance to see his inventions be used.

"Don't fire ships already exist?" I asked, calculating its use. New weapons were always good and Vaquo had proven himself a good inventor, but as I got older and Illyrio handed me more responsibility, I needed to decide whether the costs outweighed the potential benefits. I was beset by various restraints.

"They do. Fire galleys are used by the Essosi cities like Volantis on the Rhoyne when it fought against Qohor in the Century of Blood. But they're rare and inferior, mostly galleys stuffed with flammable substances and set alight. A waste of a ship, as my good-brother would say. But with this, our ships can properly use wildfire and with our compound, they'll prove less dangerous for the crews. This should spew flames twenty metres or more, if my theory is correct. This is smaller than the final device as it's all in the concept stage at the moment. If you give me men for the project and the proper coin, I can have a fully sized prototype at the end of the year."

I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Lord Vaquo. I understand, but time is drawing near. I need reliable weaponry with a quantity enough for the invasion. You helped me a lot with the handheld flamethrowers—"

"But bigger is better," he spread his arms wide and pouted. "This can make us control the seas. What about normal warfare then? On land. Put them on a carriage."

 _Like a flamethrower tank?_ "Seems impractical. You know how much wildfire costs?" _An arm and a leg_. That was quite literal. One of the Wisdoms had both burn off during the initial stages of experimentation on the wildfire. In truth, we did have time. I planned to invade Westeros after they'd been killing themselves for a year or so. In canon, Young Griff had the right idea on when to attack. The only problem was alienating Daenerys the dragon queen with his power move. If not for that minor fact, attacking Westeros from the Stormlands when he did had been the right move. I wanted to emulate that, then I would sweep in against Cersei the Mad, declare myself a hero, ride into King's Landing on a white horse, smile and wave and make a dynasty that lasts a thousand years and all that good stuff.

"A lot," Vaquo confessed, somewhat annoyed.

Despite his education, my friend wasn't that good with money. Vaquo never cared for it and simply entrusted the budget to the men around him, men who in turn were all in my father's pocket. Should we make anything, those men would report it to Illyrio, who sometimes asked for a word with me, other times demanding improvements on our ploughs, seed drills and primitive threshers. Not only did they make Illyrio one of the greatest producers of foodstuff, he sold the inventions to close friends to work their own fields. Despite being effective, they constantly needed improvements regarding their reliability as well as various cost cutting measures. I didn't mind for as long as they were improved when Westeros needed them, but sometimes it took me dragging my chief engineer by the ear to do so.

"A lot," I agreed, and his face screwed up like he'd been sucking on a few particularly sour lemons.

Looking at the flamethrower again, I did ponder the makeshift tank made of a carriage armoured in metal plates. Then dismissed it as fantasy. We already had war wagons that were used for mobile fortifications, like those used by the late medieval Black Legion. The Kingdom of Hungary and its wars against the Holy Roman Empire were my main inspiration for that and would prove effective against Westerosi cavalry. While I didn't have gunpowder, the Free City of Myr was more than happy to arm the Golden Company with high-powered crossbows. Biting my lip, I conceded. "One prototype. Just one. Make it count."

 **...**

When business with the engineers was out the way, I found my father reclining on a padded couch. He was having a busy day lounging in the expansive garden under the warm gaze of the sun, gobbling up hot peppers and pearl onions from a wooden bowl. His brow was dotted with beads of sweat and his thin eyes shone above fat red cheeks. Every meal with the man was akin to a feast, which was only cut whenever he needed to piss or shit . . . that's if he didn't just relieve himself on the spot.

"Father," I said formally, bowing my head.

Magister Illyrio drained the last of his silver cup, rubbed his hands on his sweat-stained silken robes and turned to me with a crooked smile that was unpleasant to look upon thanks to his crooked yellow teeth. "Son," he replied, voice thick with the Pentoshi dialect as he licked crumbs from his lips. There were crumbs in his oiled-yellow beard as well, but I made no mention of that. Illyrio was a messy eater; it was like he planted his face into the food and ate like a pig from a trough. "Please, take a seat, my boy." He waved me forward. "Do you desire anything? Food, wine? Maybe a slave girl to entertain you? You're getting that age, after all. You need to enjoy life!" He was smiling widely through his yellow beard.

"N-no thank you. I'm fine." I climbed atop the chair that was more like a cushioned throne, designed not to buckle under the magister's massive weight. I glanced at the Lysene serving girl who stood beside him in a rather suggestive gown of pale-blue linen. Against my own wishes, my body reacted. _Stupid hormones_. Magister Illyrio did have a thing for blondes, I found. _One of our few similarities_. But unlike him, I wasn't a slave to my urges, especially when it came to slaves. "You said we had business to discuss?"

"As you wish, but let us eat." He dismissed the 'servant' girl with a brusque wave. She curtsied and hurried away. Biting deep into a pepper, Illyrio said, "You asked of the Targaryens: Prince Viserys and the little Princess Daenerys. My friends in Tyrosh report that they should be on their way here now."

That caught me by surprise, and I froze for a moment. "Now?"

Throwing the half-eaten pepper to the ground, the fat man grinned once more. "Indeed. They'd been on the run and you know we've watched and only rarely interfered. Recently I'd been thinking. I've a plan on how they can have some use to us and our future ambitions for Westeros."

I didn't respond and kept my face a blank façade.

"With the Golden Company and the Free Cities of Tyrosh, Myr and Lys supporting us, as are the Disputed Lands and some of the Stepstones, we have a perfect opportunity. As a father, I'm proud of what you've done. I always knew there was a bit of me in you somewhere. You had to get your wits from somewhere!" He laughed so loudly, and sprayed spittle over the table. I suppressed frowning as I wiped some of it off my tunic. "By bringing the Three Daughters to heel, you achieved more than Maelys Blackfyre and Volantis itself. A most perfect opportunity to us; to you, yes?"

I replied with a shallow nod. I'd a strong feeling I knew where this was going to go.

After victory at the Battle of the Blood Red Field, the Golden Company had pressed forward with plans to take control the three cities. We planted puppets in various offices and manipulated their democracies. With the cities in our pocket, then began the process to joining them together via treaties and marriage alliances, keeping them in line with careful diplomacy and ruthless violence. To further cement our control, various officers of the Golden Company gained Essosi wives of high standing. After that, the Three Daughters were turned into tributary states and then came the reformation of the Golden Company itself. One thing I considered was changing the name for when we finally invade Westeros. Maybe the Imperial Legions or, as I personally called them, the Imperial Legions of Terra. Now doubled its original number to twenty thousand and, thanks to the reorganisation, had been divided into four smaller legions each numbering five thousand fighting men. An expensive army, true, but the tribute sufficed. It wasn't a one-sided deal. The army defended the towns and estates against Khalasars and Volantis who'd grown increasingly uncomfortable with this new regional power at it's doorstep. And possibly Braavos . . .

I sat up, pretending to be interested, though I knew how this song and dance was going to go. "Idea? Come, let me hear it, father," I smiled naïvely.

Illyrio grinned like this plan of this was the most cunning thing in the world. It wasn't. "You know the Dothraki, lad?"

"I know _of_ them." _This is the original plan that made little to no sense in the canon, isn't it?_ The Targaryens get themselves a horde, weaken Westeros during a civil war then I come prancing in, kill Viserys if he hasn't died already, slaughter some Dothraki and be crowned to the roars of a happy populace. I'd a nagging feeling this plan wasn't all that different to the original one. "Please tell me more, father? How would the Dothraki aid us in our ambitions?"

Illyrio grinned, most eager to explain and listen to his own voice. "Seeing the Dothraki are the greatest cavalry force in Essos, and with the three daughters of Valyria eating out the palm of your hand, I've come up with the perfect strategy to weaken Westeros for your coming invasion." He smiled through his forked yellow beard, oiled every morning to make it gleam like gold. He was twirling one of the prongs. "You won't be included in that, at least not at first."

"Tell me, father. What do you plan?"

"I've plans to marry Princess Daenerys Targaryen off to the greatest Dothraki Khal in living memory. A man who's never been defeated in battle and leads the greatest Khalasar in the world. He would make for a very good pawn indeed."

My smile flickered. "You want to use my connections to hire ships, correct? You want to sail him and his horde to Westeros and let them do a little bit of pillaging on behalf of King Viserys?"

"He's no king. Viserys is merely a Targaryen pretender who has no true chance to sit the Iron Throne. Neither of them have. The Beggar King has no court, no allies, and the girl's merely a pliable young child princess—"

 _Don't underestimate Daenerys. Give her an inch, she'll take a mile and then some_.

"—so neither hold any real power. This would be their only chance to get Westeros." He chuckled darkly. "But what you say is true. A simple idea, don't you think? One that promises much. When that is done, you'll come in as a hero, as Westeros' last hope to fight against the foreign horde. By that time, the Targaryens should be despised for what they've done and the lords will be thankful for the last Blackfyre liberating them."

 _A foolish idea_. There were too many variables that promised the opposite of what he wanted. Should Robert, or whatever king sitting the Iron Throne succeed in throwing them back, that would just cement their rule due to throwing a foreign invasion back into the sea. If the opposite happened and the Dothraki prove too successful, then I could have trouble pushing them back, that's if anyone joined me. Though I doubted the second option would indeed happen, or the Dothraki would prove a threat. The Mongols would be a threat, they were worthy of respect. The Dothraki were worthy only of ridicule. They didn't even wear armour for crying out loud!

"A brilliant idea!" I partially lied, leaning forward. _Though not for the reason you expect, magister_.

Illyrio looked surprised for a moment. "I thought you would require more persuading."

"Me? Nope. I think it's a terrific plan. Should Westeros be divided and weakened after a Dothraki incursion, it would make it easier for myself. Their armies would be devastated, land destroyed and stability all the weaker. A kingdom divided cannot stand." I forced a smile. _Why not let tens, possibly hundreds of thousands of women be raped, towns destroyed, and smallfolk killed off while the nobles hide in their castles and avoid the worst of it? How could that possibly go wrong?_ "Though I must ask, you mentioned a civil war . . . will the Dothraki invasion happen during or after?"

"During. Westeros is a great kingdom and not even our Dothraki friends can fight the lords alone. They'll need assistance. A kingdom divided won't stand up to Khal Drogo."

I didn't fear for Westeros for the Dothraki invasion would never happen. Repeating canon was a small price to pay for dragons. Daenerys marries Khal Drogo, he dies, she hatches dragons and pushes through a desert to Qarth where I'd be waiting with ships and an army in the Disputed Lands. Until the dragons were in my procession, I wasn't willing to move against Westeros. But even then, I was willing to wait and let Cersei get into power where she begins fucking everything up. In the meantime, my army could do with some further refinement as well as waiting for those weapons of mass destruction to get large enough to be of some use. I'd been working on that plan for years.

"I'm glad you support it. That was exactly what I was thinking," my father said, nodding to his own shoddy and overcomplicated scheme. "Though for it to work, I would urge you and your . . . _companions_ to leave these grounds. If I'm to host these two Targaryens, they can't be seen and especially not a Blackfyre. Viserys . . . oh, Viserys. He is the Mad Kings son. The girl is meek and so very weak. But should they believe you're a Blackfyre . . ."

"They won't be happy and all the more resilient to your plans." I sighed. "I'll take my leave then, father." It would do well to return the Disputed Lands once more to check up on everything. I was mostly the ideas guy so the responsibility of seeing everything through was performed by Ser Myles Toyne and his subordinates. It was only thanks to them I got this far. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have starved to death, or be killed to an axe to the back of the head.

"In a few days' time." Illyrio Mopatis looked conflicted. "Perhaps it'll soon be time to reveal yourself to the world. It is wrong for the one true king of the Iron Throne to be in hiding with that ludicrous blue hair. It never looked good on you, hiding your colours. Your mother would certainly not like it. She was proud of her heritage."

I flicked my blue-locks back. "Me dying my hair is needed, I'm afraid." I carelessly shrugged my shoulders and leaned back into the chair, feeling so tiny atop the massive cushions. "The true monarch will sit the Iron Throne at the end of the day, magister, I ensure you. I've been making sure of it."

 **...**

With news of the Targaryen's arrival, I spent the rest of the day packing. Despite preparing for a long time, a part of me doubted I'd done enough. _Perhaps it'll never be enough . . ._ But that was likely just me and my overall attitude. I was cautious by nature and while that would help ensure I wouldn't do anything foolhardy, it would also make me more hesitant to take advantage of an opening. Thinking about it, I was in a good position. I had Illyrio and allies to provide financial aid, I had able generals and an experienced war machine. Still, I didn't know how I'll fare in Westeros.

Taking a deep breath, I calmed my nerves. _Keep calm. You can do this. Others in a worse position have succeeded_. I still had two years before the events of Feast and Dance. I chewed my bottom lip. _You still have time_.

I proceeded to a secluded room in the manse and knocked on the door. Waiting outside felt like an eternity before it opened and Lyra stared at me, annoyed. I looked over her shoulder. The curtains were closed, leaving the entire room dark excluding the bits illuminated by dimly lit candles and a strange ruby that seemed to shimmer and produce a faint glow.

I couldn't help but chuckle at the pointed look she was giving me. "Still at it, are you?"

Lyra wasn't an open person and only let a few people inside her chambers, nor would they like to visit. The one time Illyrio approached her, apparently to see the future of 'his boy,' Lyra had been dissecting body parts in the name of science. Afterwards he kept as far away as he could, even offering her a place away from his manse, but I urged her not to agree. I needed her close. The saying was keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I don't know which Lyra was but her being a mage who knew my _real_ identity ensured I needed to keep a close eye on her person.

Being a beacon of hospitality, Lyra grimaced and reluctantly let me inside. "Oh please, do come in. It wasn't like I was in the middle of something."

I rolled my eyes. "For someone being financed for your studies and given equipment that would make the maesters of the Citadel cry out in envy, I do think you should owe me a little more respect. Not much, I know you have your pride, but a little thank you would suffice."

She folded her arms. "I never bent the knee to you."

"You didn't," I agreed grudgingly.

Ours was a friendship of convenience, as Haldon called it. Though to call it friendship would be a bit of a stretch. _More like people with interests that slightly align_. All that it took for this alliance of ours was the Glass Candle I got from Volantis and freedom for her to operate as she wished in her free time which I was going to offer anyway. Lyra's expertise wouldn't have much use until after the dragon's hatch. But with magic certain to come back swinging hard, it wouldn't hurt to begin early and grab myself a mage beforehand. The fact she was against the Red Faith was a nice bonus as well, though not for the reasons of sacrifice which disgusted many of my Westerosi companions. Lyra was perfectly fine with sacrificing people provided the costs were worth the price, but her reasoning was one she explained, "The faith of R'hllor are backwards. Their attitude to work magic is to use a hammer than a scalpel is all that is needed. Nor do they know or care to know where their magic comes from, so they attribute it to their false god." Lyra wasn't the kind to shy away from badmouthing R'hllor, would tsk whenever she heard about them burning people alive for minor miracles and go off in tirades on how bleeding them or using a leach would be a preferable alternative. Not because it was wrong to burn them alive in her eyes, but it was a waste of good blood to use for a later day.

Sighing loudly, Lady Lyra took a seat at her desk. "So, what is going on? Rarely do you come in my most humble chambers for a little chat."

"Rarely," I agreed and sat down opposite her. "I'm afraid that we'll need to take our leave of this place, milady. My father is accepting some important visitors who won't appreciate our presence, or to be more specific, mine."

"The red dragons?" I nodded and she snorted. "You fear them, don't you?"

 _I fear what Daenerys may become_. "The opposite. I pity them. Regardless, we need to take our leave. I've already told Vaquo and his minions." Despite our back and forth, Lady Lyra, strangely enough, was on warmer relations to Vaquo. That was likely due to them working on multiple projects together and it had been her who'd suggested changing the chemical compound of the wildfire. While neither had much in the way of social skills, they were experts in their selected fields. "I would even suggest you pack up this lab of yours. Most of it anyway. We're heading to the Disputed Lands and should be gone for a while."

She groaned loud and hard. "I hate travel, and besides, I'm busy. I was on a breakthrough when it comes to dissection. Then you barged in." The mage pursed her lips.

I looked over. "On frogs?"

"I know frogs aren't the best, but they are the closest things to humans you can get without being listed as a monster or grave robber. I can't believe it's illegal in Pentos."

"You'll get human bodies, that I promise," I said dismissively.

While this world's knowledge of medicine was better than it would likely have been in medieval Europe, it could still be further improved upon. I couldn't proclaim bacteria and viruses existed due to lack of physical evidence, but I could still push for cleanliness. I also needed people with expertise to add credence to what I did know. If Lyra needed dead bodies, I was more than happy to provide and Westeros would soon have an abundance. Like Qyburn, Lyra had more interest in the breathing kind and if she wanted live specimens, there would always be rapists and other monsters I could hand her. I cared not for them and if they spend the last of their life being used for science, at least they'd do some good that can benefit others.

"I'll hold you to that promise," she grinned a way that unnerved me. It was a slightly feral expression that she did whenever we found common ground. "So, when do you plan to leave"

"We should have a week, maybe more, though I'd rather not take the risk. We'll take a ship to Myr where we'll visit our main manufacturer of crossbows, the Alchemist's Guild and finally the army stationed in the Disputed Lands."

"Or your legions," Lyra giggled, and her face turned into a falsely innocent mask. "Your Westerosi invasion force. It'll be horribly amusing should they break and falter like the attempts of your ancestors." She cocked her head, clicking her tongue. "Should that indeed happen, I may have fun cutting you up and see how you Valyrians function. Someone inbred as yourself would no doubt provide much in the way of research. Your race does not have much in the way of physical disabilities due to inbreeding, unlike others. If you did, you'd look like a monster instead of half a girl."

"Then I hope I don't loss," I replied, suppressing a shiver. As much as I'd grown comfortable around her, I doubted our relationship would stop her practising medicine on me. Like Qyburn, but a younger female version who didn't act nearly as friendly and was as subtle as a kick to the balls. "That would be most distressing for me."

"Then you better work hard. There are dark things in this world that you wouldn't want to be on the bad side of. I do have some theories on why Valyrians are the way they are. Want to hear them?" She sounded awfully eager. While Lyra didn't have the same childish eagerness of Vaquo who could talk for hours about his inventions and concepts without allowing you a moment to break in, Lyra acted more restrained but there was a similar love for her craft.

"Briefly."

She pursed her lips, clearly not what she wanted to hear. "To cut a long story short, I have come to believe you Valyrians are not, shall we say, completely natural."

"If it exists, it is natural," I said. "But what makes you say that?"

"Not only are you different from most of the other races, you have qualities not found anywhere else. Certain features like—"

"Purple eyes? Don't those Little Valyrian lemurs in the forests of Qohor have similar eye colours?"

"Tis true. But the histories point that the magical potential of the Valyrians surpass others and then there is the field of blood magic that does specialise in body alteration. While I don't believe those legends of Valyrians being part dragon, I do believe magic may have been used to make dragons more receptive to those of Valyrian blood and alterations have been made for the dragonlords to make them more attuned to magic itself."

 _Transhumanism?_ "Any proof?"

"Mostly speculation."

I chuckled. "Well, work on that. Should be interesting to read your thesis on the matter. I could use a laugh."

Her face flickered for a moment then curled into a dark smile. "You'll see, demon. When I'm proven right, you'll regret it."

 _Ah, the D-word again_. "If you're proven right, I'll eat my own shoes. How about that?" She laughed and, grinning, I turned to the glass candle atop her desk. It was her most prized procession, something she always kept close despite its origins. The candle was a tall monstrosity of warped glass that curled in upon itself, tall and twisted with sharp edges eager for blood, where it rose in a parody of a spire. When I first showed her, Lyra had been entranced. A Glass Candle was a rare artefact, and one that promised power should it ever work. "Have you found a way to make it glow?"

Lady Lyra shook her head disappointingly. "Not yet. I'm trying various ways from those books you gave me. None of them have worked. I tried my own blood by cutting them on those purposely designed edges. That failed and it was a bloody bother to clean it off without cutting the fabric. I'm sure I'll find a way to make it work in due time. Though to be honest, I've ignored it for more theoretical pursuits."

"Other than proving the Valyrian dragonlords are inhuman abominations?"

"Don't sell yourself short, my little dragon. I only know the one descended from the dragonlords and inside his pretty little head is a being from another world." She grinned playfully, cocking her head and twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Dissecting your soul would be a most fruitful endeavour. Who knows what secrets it holds?"

I signed dramatically. "With friends like you, who needs enemies?"

She snickered and changed the subject or, more accurately, put it back on track. "Other than that, as more a passing fancy, I'm working on Marwyn's theory on the differences between natural and magical laws. It seems that magical laws can't take precedence and must conform to how nature works. I consider one to have come before the other and the latter needs to fit certain categories. As I said, much is theory and more studies are needed to prove its validity."

I nodded, sometimes wanting her to speak plainer so my plebeian mind could understand. She did know how to make certain things complicated. From what I could get, she said that magic needed to conform to the laws of natural science like physics. _But does it?_ Shadow babies be damned and dragons and ice zombies . . . yea, I think that theory could have more holes in it then the Bismarck. "Well . . . good luck with that. But what about destiny and the like?"

Her face soured immediately. "Aegon. What is your obsession with destiny?"

"I'm not obsessed with it," I said. "I'm just curious about whether it's a legitimate force." _One that may in fact kill me if I'm not cautious_. Self-fulfilling ones seemed to be a thing in this world, and that wasn't to mention certain characters like Daenerys who seemed to be in the centre of many. That was one of the reasons I was so worried about interfering. Rarely did it turn out well.

Lyra rolled her eyes at me. "You are a fool. Don't concern yourself with such nonsense."

"Says the fortune-teller."

"It does you no good health being concerned on how you'll affect the future. I told you this once and I'll say it again, it doesn't help you sleep at night and sooner or later it'll destroy your sanity. This knowledge of yours of things to come, all that it really is, is keeping you inside a box you will never be able to escape from. It restrains you. Like this moment of fleeing the Targaryens because you don't want them to acknowledge your presence at the risk of changing what could be." She then shrugged. "But that's only my opinion on the matter. Do as you will, Young Egg. We have free will and if you want to enslave yourself, go ahead. I won't stop you."

I blinked and looked away, taking a deep breath. "I'll think about it, Lyra. You've given me something to think about." I then took my leave. While she was in her quest to cut open the world to see how everything worked and criticise whatever I did, I was going to get myself a migraine by planning my future invasion of Westeros. _What a time to be me!_

* * *

A/N: I decided to go with a time skip to just before the start of GoT. After the battle, it seemed like a natural place to put it. Lyra is back, and Vaquo reappeared and both are doing what they were hired to do. My favourite parts being the conversations with Illyrio and Lyra, but what do you think? Once more, I would like to thank all those who've read, commented, favourited and followed.

Update: Just changed the number of flamethrowers to sixty. TMI Fairy was right and it seemed a bit too much.

Comments:

osterreicher97: I wrote Lyra to be the opposite of Melisandre and one that mostly looks at magic through the scientific lens. I think Westerosi may have a clue of what's going on. The GC is too powerful a force and though Feast and Dance, everyone's taking notes on their movements, so they'll be aware even without knowing a Blackfyre exists. The only reason he hasn't got Dany and Viserys with him now is because Aegon, in his mind, needs the dragons. While what happened to her was bad, Aegon doing an ends justify the means philosophy, and the canon is the only way to hatch them that's certain.

jiubantai-taichoCalmejaneJose: Valyrians are not fireproof in the books and what Daenerys achieved was a miracle. The Dothraki invasion would never happen in the story. Aegon says it himself and won't trust such a fighting force in the first place. He does desire to keep damage to a minimum.

Tom2011: You could be right.

BoskiJelen: Dragons are very useful. Not only because they're the medieval equivalent of nukes, but also because they can be used similar to aircraft to support armies and scout. Used correctly, a single dragon is an army in its own. Daenerys can learn later on. She's a smart girl and quick learner.

NeedingOfLifeGoalDude: Seems to have made sense for Illyrio to have Aegon learn water dancing due to him having practised it and Syrio seemed a good fit. Braavos and Volantis are unlikely to fight the Triachy directly, though more than willing to begin proxy wars against them. Other characters will be showing up like Euron, who will a prominent antagonist be later on. There are a few possible pairings for Aegon, though Daenerys seems to be the most popular.

Fritosaurio: Cheers. The other Free Cities are worried should the Triachy get Imperial ambitions and decide to expand, especially if Pentos decides to willingly join to get out the Braavosi sphere of influence. For the Targs, you'll just have to see how the story plays.

TMI Fairy: I disagree about what you said about Water Dancing. It may not be the best technique to deal with armoured opponents, but it would be useful to expand one's knowledge of fighting. It would also improve his skills that'll translate to other weapons. I agree about the flamethrowers so I rewrote that and scaled it back to sixty. The Churchill seemed to have been Tyrion in the tv series by separating their forces to attack Casterly Rock. I don't think GRRM looked into the logistics for a Dothraki invasion for his armies, otherwise Renly wouldn't have like 80,000 men in an army, especially not camped in one place.

Guest (who refuses to make an account): Aegon doesn't know how to hatch the dragons himself. He may have a clue but none of the other attempts of hatching dragons succeeded in the lore. Following canon is the only confirmed way to hatch them. For Aegon's plan with Daenerys after the eggs hatch, his plan is to sweep in and grab her in Qarth before she gets an army and thus reliant on his forces. She wanted ships and Illyrio provided ships to take her to Pentos but Ser Jorah convinced her to go to Slaver's Bay. I'm more than willing to stray from canon, the character isn't. If would be better if Daenerys wasn't weak – which she isn't. It only took her a dream to get more confident, and dragons. If she's to be married, she'll be a ruler and thus need to be confident and authoritative.

Guest: Seeing as the Triachy are more a launching pad for the invasion of Westeros, Aegon hasn't focused much on changing how those cities operate and instead focusing on the GC. Of course, Aegon's plan with slavery is to slowly make it less desirable and before he makes any move to crush it outright. I did certainly plan on making a firefighter corps, especially in King's Landing. That city needs it. For Vaquo, he doesn't know much about ships, he just made a bigger flamethrower that can be fitted onto a vessel.


	14. Chapter 13: Legions and Lions

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 13: Legions and Lions**

* * *

Walking beneath the Alchemist's Guild Hall in Myr, I realised why they told us to dress warmly. Thankfully I heeded their advice and decided to dress in heavy quilted breeches, a woollen doublet, and a thick fur cloak I'd been lent by the High Wisdom. It smelled stale and was too big for me, but it was better than freezing. The chill in the long dark vault was bone deep.

With me trailed Lady Lyra and Vaquo Volnyros. Duck and the guards waited upstairs, barred from entering. Even if they could, I doubted they would have joined us in compact tunnels crammed full of explosive chemicals. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, we entered a labyrinth of tunnels and narrow chambers with vaulted ceiling to hold up the massive weight above. The damp stone walls were splotchy with nitre and the only lights came from sealed iron-and-glass oil lamps the various Wisdoms and slaves carried so cautiously.

 _Rightfully cautious, the last thing we need is to be caught in an explosion should one of those jars drop_. Pots of chemicals lined the walls, and wildfire was stored inside heavy crates filled with sand so they wouldn't break. In said creates I knew would also be the grenades themselves. They were fat clay grapefruits, the pottery so fragile that even squeezing one too tightly could cause it to break. The surface was rough and pebbled so it couldn't slip from the hand, and at the top would be a hole stuffed with fabric to be set alight. They were dangerous and would only be in the hands of skilled operators, where they'd be thrown or fired from artillery for added distance.

Leading the way was Jyssan Tessyr, a short slim man with black-hair and dark-olive skin. His eyes were like black beads and dangling from his chin was a pointy little beard. To show his rank, the Myrman wore rich silks of black-and-scarlet, with dark suede gloves to keep his little hands warm. All the various chambers were guarded with heavy doors reinforced with iron, but inside I could hear the Wisdoms working. They were very secretive, for they feared someone would steal the knowledge to make wildfire themselves, which was them being rightfully paranoid. I would have stolen it if I had the chance. It was a cautious decision to commission the Alchemist's Guild whose services were costly, despite their lack of clientele. While more influential than its cousin in Westeros, the Essosi Alchemist's Guild wasn't as influential as it could be and taking up service with the Golden Company was a venture taken with both hands.

It was then did they realise we'd only commission them provided they worked alongside Vaquo and Lyra. Poor sods.

"Are we going deeper?" I asked, trying my best at the Myrish language. "How deep does this tunnel go?"

"Far into the earth," the Wisdom answered. "There are vaults below where we store the older pots, the ones you refused. They grow more volatile by the day, so it may be wise you refused them. The ones your companions designed . . . they are bastard wildfire that'll only catch alight when exposed to an open flame. Still dangerous, mind you. One of the slaves with clumsy hands fell and the wildfire burned through his flesh to the bone and the rest of his arm bubbled. I apologise for his foolishness."

"Lovely. Thank you for that image," I muttered.

"What precautions do you have?" the Volantene inventor asked. Vaquo was so bound up in furs that he looked like a bear; a very plump teddy bear. He wasn't comfortable with just one cloak, oh no, he had to armour himself in a couple of large hides that wrapped around his body several times. He still complained of the cold, face red and teeth chattering. "I would expect there to be something should the wildfire ignite."

"There is, Master Vaquo. The substance is prepared by trained acolytes in a series of bare stone cells. Each jar is removed by an apprentice and carried down to the lower levels the instant it is ready. Above each cell is a room filled with sand. A protective spell is laid out on the ceilings. A most powerful spell crafted during the time of Old Valyria. Thankfully they never have been used, but should they do so, the sands will smother the fires at once."

"Not to mention anyone down there at the time," I mused. "Is it truly a spell? Or is it a simple trick like hatches on the ceiling?"

He bristled at the question of falsehood, but it was Lyra who answered. "There are wards in the stonework," she stated matter-of-factly. "The ceiling, the floors and the walls have magic built in the stone. They're activated by heat and the spell works by breaking the stone and letting the sands fall. Simple work, really. Not that impressive and certainly nothing of praise, especially during the time of Old Valyria."

"It is advanced magic," the Myrman rebutted, turning around to the smirking Rhoynish woman. "Made by the greatest mages of the age."

"Perhaps when they were mere novices," Lyra said dismissively with a brusque wave of the hand. "Not like it needs that much. There is such a thing as overdoing. Though the true interest is the substance itself. That I wouldn't mind truly knowing."

"You can't do so. You're no Wisdom and a woman. We don't accept your kind."

Lyra didn't look too disappointed, instead she clicked her tongue impatiently.

"Anyway," I said before this becomes an argument that Jyssan would surely loss. One didn't argue with Lyra about magic before she goes off into a rant that had left me speechless on more than one occasion. "Are you going to show us what you've done so far, Wisdom Jyssan?"

"Indeed. Well, my lady, my brethren have never so careless for the wards to activate. For one to become a pyromancer, one has to respect the power. The substance flows through my veins and lives in the heart of every pyromancers."

Vaquo tsked. "By substance, you mean wildfire?"

"Indeed."

"Then you should be dead. It should burn through you."

I rolled by eyes and the Wisdom looked behind. "A metaphor, Vaquo. He doesn't mean it literally."

"Though if it is, I would love to open you up and check," Lyra smiled in a way that couldn't be more sinister.

Rolling my eyes, I continued my series of questions. "So, since your last delivery, how many jars have you created?"

The man audibly licked his lips. "High Wisdom Yarridos Strassanar informs me that there are a two hundred new pots waiting to be delivered, though many, I am told, are to remain here."

 _That puts our total to one-and-a-half thousand_. While the Golden Company had some wildfire on hand, it was stockpiling the rest of it for Westeros. We couldn't burn through all our wonder weapons before we even set sail, now could we? Granted, manufacturing would be easier once the dragons hatched so we'd have more by that point. Regardless of how much there was, wildfire should prove devastating. Unpopular, sure, but crossbows were looked down upon by knights, as were peasants. War was war and I had no qualms about being dishonourable so long as it got me results. _Even the kindest and most merciful of kings rule over vast graveyards of both the innocent and guilty_.

"I would not want you and your guild brothers to hasten on our account. None of us here would want jars of defective substance, nor even one . . . and certainly no accidents. The failure of fulfilling a quota is nothing should the former happen."

"Indeed, Master Griffin," the Wisdom said. "There'll be no accidents. That much will be certain."

 _One would hope_.

 **...**

" _Century! Salute!_ " cried the officer and a hundred men stood to attention in the meadow where the Golden Company had made their encampment. The men planted their polearms into the ground, pressed a closed fist to their breast and bowed their heads.

I let myself smile mildly at the sight.

After inspecting them drill and fight another unit, one would be a fool to think they weren't exceptionally well-trained. How could they not with Galaerys Drahar training them? Armed with halberds, glaives and bills designed to drag nobles from their mounts, they were versatile in battle and would work well against even the most heavy of units. They were well-armoured as well, with mail and gambesons with either a brigandine or solid breastplate over that. All wore sallet helms with bevors protecting their necks. It was a common setup for common soldiery in the mid-to-late fifteenth century, and perhaps early sixteenth century. They were certainly superior to their Westerosi opposition.

Despite my usual pessimistic attitude, I was proud on what the officers of the Company managed to achieve in the last few years. The men excelled at fighting in formation and had proven themselves unrivalled in Essos. The problem was that they weren't trained to fight as individuals like knights were. If they were surrounded or forced to break ranks, they'd be devastated. Quite a shame because the Westerosi - and many Essosi for that matter - believed fighting one-on-one was inherently better. Such an attitude was so ingrained that Myles had a challenge getting the newly recruited knights to work in proper formation. Despite those hurdles, as long as the line held, this army held the clear advantage.

I gave a shallow nod aimed towards the men and turned to my associate who stood out like a sore thumb. Dalabhar was one of the largest men I'd ever seen. Standing nearly seven feet tall, he had hulking shoulders, a massive muscled chest and a flat homely face with a broad nose that looked like it'd been broken a few times. His skin was like teak and was covered with tattoos that had to be from Volantis. It would be hard to find a more intimidating man. He was decent with a bow, better with an axe but a much better accountant then he was at combat. That was why he became my adjutant, under the personal recommendation of Blackheart when I was more officially promoted to an officer and now leading a century. Due to Dalabhar being better at organising and paperwork than myself, he'd been given full control of my administration duties; not much different from the duties he performed under his previous commander who was completely illiterate.

"They're well drilled," I remarked.

"Aye," the much larger man said. "These are men of the Second Legion. Men whose forefathers were born and died in the Company." He snarled. "They're not green men who came in after the reforms, that's for certain. These ones know how to use their weapons and are no fresh faced recruits."

"I should hope not. Otherwise I may need a word with their commander," I mused aloud.

The men stood as still as statues and, as those words jogged my memory, I did recognise some of the weathered faces of veterans that'd been with us before uniting the Triachy and Disputed Lands, fighting sellswords and pirates occupying the Stepstones. Annexing the eastern islands had been one of the prices to pay for Tyroshi support. Only some of the isles were in the Triachy's hands, however, otherwise we'd have Westeros to deal with and it didn't turn out well the last time the Stepstones were under a central authority. Going against Westeros would be a different kettle of fish than fighting against pirate princes, thus we made sure not to be too threatening to the Iron Throne. They hadn't done anything yet, but I knew Westeros had eyes on us.

"You men, you're dismissed." They gave me a salute and returned to their duties. I turned to adjutant. "Of the new recruits you mentioned, the Third and Forth, I'm suspecting?"

"Indeed. I was of the Third before I was reassigned to you, Officer Griffin." I heard him chuckle at that, though it was more a snort. "I'm afraid my words came off as inaccurate. The men are all well-trained and well-motivated. Morale is high throughout all the legions. It's only that the Third and Forth remain unbloodied. Many have more confidence than sense, especially those of Westerosi blood."

I nodded. We took in soldiers from all over. The Summer Isles far to the south, the Free Cities, Ghis and even some Dothraki had joined, though they'd been disciplined and now fought in a manner more akin to the Mongolians and other steppe peoples. But the largest group were the Westerosi; more than a couple being Targaryen loyalists having either come just after Robert's Rebellion or more recently. Some were knights looking for adventure, nobles who'd been exiled or common-born criminals who'd rather be under the Essosi sun than the Wall or the hangman's gallows. The legions were full of criminals, but the lesser kind; not the rapists and serial killers sellsword companies like the Bloody Mummers hired, these men had been thieves and poachers, bastards, political enemies and the disenfranchised, people who weren't meant to matter and simply be forgotten. But those men had been reforged, beaten like how a blacksmith beats a sword, given a grander purpose and iron discipline where they'd been crafted into a formidable fighting force.

"They'll be bloodied soon enough, adjutant, I assure you," though those words were more to myself than him.

The Summer Islander looked at me with narrow eyes like onyx, his face guarded. "You think we'll be on the move soon?"

"We will." _I'm a Blackfyre and Westeros awaits_. We fought some battles but they were minor and of low intensity. The Golden Company's reputation did ensure that many of the rival free companies surrendered before the battle even began and that was before what we'd done recently. As of yet, this army hadn't fought for a year or so. It was a machine that needed war to exist. Because of this, a few officers were feeling that the tributes we received were turning the men lazy, but so long as they drilled and didn't become lax, I couldn't really complain. I didn't want to squander our limited manpower in unnecessary fighting.

"We'll need to move the camp regardless," the Summer Islander stated, crossing his arms behind his back. "The captain-general fears bad smells may cause disease to spread and we should move closer to Myr in order to put pressure on them."

It would be a foolish thing to say our tributary states cared for our presence. Despite all our agreements, they didn't hold much love for us extorting them for coin and resources. While the original agreements promised limited interference from us, we were pushing for the rights for slaves. After some threats, the Free Cities were truly becoming freer in that their slave class was getting more rights such as the right to complain about their masters in court for horrid treatment (though this was reserved for household slaves), slaves who were abandoned became free and masters killing their slaves could now be tried for homicide. While I wanted to go further, we needed stability first and foremost so I couldn't just abolish it and risk a repeat of what happened to Daenerys. They'll be time in the future for a free Essos.

These were some of the reasons the Republic of Myr was resilient to our demands and many of the men were even wondering if they planned on rebelling. Such a thing couldn't be allowed happen. Myr was the most advanced of the Free Cities. They outfitted our army with weapons and armour and wildfire. All the officers and scouts were equipped with Myrish scopes that let them easily look vast distances. Should they decide to rise up, their government would be abolished and replaced with a military dictatorship with a full crackdown on discontent. A clear warning to the others.

"I'll have to make certain with the captain-general then."

The both of us then entered the encampment surrounded by palisade walls, watchtowers and a ditch fitted with sharpened stakes. It was compact and orderly with streets of tents and armouries and areas for merchants to scam the men. Besides the river were latrines so the water washed away the waste and far away from that was where the men collected their water to drink or clean. Strict rules were in place when it came to hygiene and public health, where doing your business too close to the drinking water was punished by twenty lashes. We couldn't tolerate disease spreading. Should there be any outbreak, the infected were isolated in tents away from the rest of the men and only be visited by physicians and medics required to follow all the health standards of a modern hospital. Having an army be devastated by disease was no way to begin a lengthy military campaign. As we walked down the neat avenues to the captain-generals tent, the legionaries diced, maintained their equipment and saluted my presence. All were drilled throughout the day, and I hadn't been excused despite my few promotions; if anything, I was held to much higher standards since returning as both a soldier and commander. A future ruler didn't have the option for failure, it seemed, nor could they be seen as being soft on me before the rest of the 'lads,' as Ser Duck called my peers. The captain-generals tent was at the top of the hill, a pavilion made of cloth-of-gold with the previous skulls of the captain-generals waiting outside. I greeted them and adjutant shook his head at the display.

The guards ushered us inside where only Blackheart sat, leaning over a table carpeted with paperwork. Both me and Dalabhar gave a salute and Myles Toyne looked up, boredom in those pale-green eyes of his. He had grown out his beard which was going grey and I now stood taller than him.

"You've arrived, Young Griff," he said to me with all the enthusiasm of a man marching to the Somme. "Please take a seat." I did so and Blackheart stood up. "Do either of you want wine? I've got myself a fine selection from the city of Lys. Came with the latest tribute. Our dearest friend Tregar Ormollen gifted me with some of his finest vintages from his own cellar. Worthy of a king, he claimed and I agree, though I'd say kings must have sweeter tongue than myself."

I declined, instead asking for some lemon water and Dalabhar refused the offer altogether. The Summer Islander was a dutiful soldier and not a man of vices. "Captain-general," he said, voice flat and ever so formal, "May I be excused? I'm sure you'd want to talk to my superior alone and I have business required of me."

"You may be dismissed, adjutant. Continue with your duties." Dalabhar gave a crisp salute and took his leave. Toyne filled his cup and mine which was crafted from Myrish glass said to break if the contents were poisoned, and even added some chunks of ice, an expensive luxury in the Disputed Lands. I was most thankful for his generosity.

Myles took a sip of his wine and fell into his chair of tiger fur. "I assumed you've inspected the men."

"I did, captain-general. They're well-drilled. I couldn't find anything that was at fault. I know from experience that Galaerys Drahar is a talented master-at-arms and drillmaster. These men will do well in the wars to come."

"They should," Myles commented, giving my cup a queer look. "The First and Second legions will serve as the backbone for taking Westeros. The Third and Forth are inexperienced and, until they prove themselves in battle, will not compare. Despite everything, those men are of a lesser breed."

"A lesser breed?" I was confused. "May I ask what you mean by that, ser?"

"Beneath the gold, the gold." Myles leaned back and massaged his scalp. "What you planned, while I must congratulate you on everything, it needs be said are drawbacks both great and small. Because of this new comfortable status quo, many of the men are hesitant to sail to Westeros. They believe we've got a good life going on now. The cities of Myr, Tyrosh and Lys offer us tribute and the new blood have no ambition for Westeros. Mostly among the common soldiery but we've a couple of officers with similar opinions. Harry is one of them."

"Homeless Harry?" _Why am I not surprised?_

Myles nodded. "Him and others are different. Our founder never had to deal with them like I needs to. They're no Bittersteel, no Fireball. They want coin and easy coin at that. Those who've joined recently, you can understand. But the older blood, oh, Westeros is a foreign land to them and not one they're willing to fight for."

"It could be expected," I said softly. "This is what happens when generations pass and those that have never seen Westeros will distance themselves from it." One just had to look at many of the men to see that. Oh, they spoke the common tongue and even worshipped the Seven, but you just had to listen to them speak and see how they dressed to know they were more Essosi than Westerosi. The fact many of them had Essosi parentage made it genetic as much as cultural.

"They've lost their purpose," Blackheart declared with a low raging fire deep in his throat. "With no Blackfyre among us, we're digressing to mere sellswords. We were a brotherhood of exiles. Oh, some may have come later, but we were united under common cause. The golden banner of Bittersteel, his skull. And now . . ."

 _Instability always comes with change_. That was a given. The fact that the army was experiencing further division was most certainly stressing Blackheart out. Currently there were multiple factions within the Company. The Independents didn't want to go to Westeros, being more than happy to sit on their arses and drown in gold from the Free Cities. While that belief was rife throughout the army – most prominent among the lesser officers and commons – the upper echelons included figures like Maar, Balaq and Edoryen who couldn't care less about Blackfyres and Westeros because they didn't see it as their fight. The higher command was also divided between the Blackfyre faction who wanted me crowned King, headed by Ser Myles Toyne and various other Blackfyre supporters known as the Old Guard. More than a couple didn't want the Targaryens involved and, if anything, wanted me to marry Margaery Tyrell whose family promised much in the way of men and fodder. Opposing them was the Targaryen faction led by Ser Jon Connington and various loyalists who'd joined after Robert's Rebellion; whose radicals wanted to crown Viserys as King of the Seven Kingdoms and were otherwise known as the Reds. The Moderates wanted an alliance between the two branches, by either killing Viserys or otherwise removing him from the board and creating unity between the branches of House Targaryens - not to mention their proponents within the Company - by marrying myself and Daenerys as a way to bridge the gap.

"They'd been left to swim in an ocean without a clear destination in sight and mind." I shrugged my shoulders. "It was bound to happen, ser. Though I'm sure many would want to regain their ancestral keeps and titles."

"Is it really home if you've never been here?" Blackheart asked me, as if he wasn't so sure himself. "My kin are from Westeros, my kin fought in the Brotherhood and against the Targaryens. That's the only reason I'm here. It was King Aegon the Unworthy who exiled my house when Ser Terrence Toyne of the Kingsguard slept with his mistress and was dismembered piece by piece while the Bracken woman was forced to watch. His brothers tried to avenge him but were killed by the Dragonknight." Toyne took a drink, swashing it in his mouth. "We then lost our ancestral castle, Blackheart Keep, near Summerhall. Most of us were exiled to Essos where we'd been forced to sell our swords just to survive. Oh, some of us remained in Westeros, Ser Simon Toyne and the Kingswood Brotherhood by example, but now . . . I'm the last one. My bloodline is like to end with me."

"But you're married," I pointed out. While Myles never married before, he was now with a Tyroshi merchant prince's daughter, a young creature that had bright purple hair and a gap between her teeth. She was in Tyrosh, having only bedded her husband once to consummate the marriage and not since.

"I'm married," Blackheart acknowledged. "But I'm prepared to state my dynasty may indeed end with me. My family were once Marcher Lords, defenders of the Stormlands against the Dornish south. Now we're nothing but colours on cloth, with words saying, 'fly high, fly far.'" Toyne laughed, cold and bitter. "We flew high on more than a few occasions, but we clipped our wings and fell and battered the ground hard enough to never rise again. We flew far, but away from Westeros and home." He took another drink, almost emptying it with that one gulp. "Should my seed quicken in that child, I may have a daughter and whether she'll continue the family name, is uncertain. Should it be a boy, he'll be a knight and my heir should he survive long enough."

I nodded. "You're prepared for you line to end, and you? Have you prepared to die?"

He laughed that same laugh. "I'm a soldier who sells his sword. I am a knight. Every time I arm myself I don't know whether I'll return. This invasion of Westeros may in fact be my last, lad. It most certainly would. Won't just be me. This is the last opportunity for many of the men to do so as well. The First and Second Legions are all that's left, manned by men who know no other life than that of war. More Blackfyre men die off every year, making us a dying breed. The Third and Forth though . . . they're outsiders yet to properly prove themselves. Opening up the Company also lowered our standards in order to build up the proper size as well. Those men have no proper loyalty to the cause. Many of them may indeed break easier than we'd both like."

That was always the danger. Before deciding to expand, the Golden Company held high standards, but they'd been lowered. The numbers were quickly filled when we decided to deal with the competition should they ever be hired by the Essosi powers to remove us for whatever means. The Ragged Standard, the Stormcrows, Second Sons, the Merry Men, and many others, all killed off to a man. Daario Naharis' head was presented to me by a grinning Chains who'd smashed the flamboyant sellsword's head with that massive chained whip of his, leaving half the twat's face in bloody ruins. The advantage of mercenaries was that they had no loyalties other than coin and, fighting in the midst of civil war and for what I had planned, that was all the more important. The only problem was them getting paid on time and should that not happen, they'll revolt which made administration essential and required the need for more scribes, which in turn cost more.

"They will fight," I said with certainty, sitting straight in my chair. "The men have been drilled and are well versed in the art of war. They'll not retreat else they shame themselves before their comrades, or flee in the face of hardship, for desertion is deserving of decimation." The Romans were bloody ruthless when they needed to be. Having people stoned or beaten to death by their companions was enough to stop them from deserting the Company. Even the most disloyal sellsword hesitated to flee when the punishment was harsh enough.

Myles looked at me uneasily and finished his drink. Mine remained on the table. "I've got the message from Magister Illyrio. The Targaryens have made it safely to Pentos. I heard you removed all your . . . _associates_ from the manse."

"Indeed. I didn't want the Targaryens to get their hands on what I spent the last year or so doing. I don't trust them. I think you understand."

"The Volantene and the witch. Not the best of company to keep around, lad."

"They're good company," I defended, hearing my voice break. Myles lip's curled in a slight smile. "They are useful. I couldn't have done the wildfire without the both of them. Vaquo for the flamethrowers and Lyra for the compound."

"You know I don't trust the wildfire."

"This is a difference substance. I've shown you. It won't ignite unless near an exposed flame. You know they're more reliable than they ever were. It's not like before where Aegon the Unworthy burned down half the Kingswood." An embarrassment that halted his invasion of Dorne and empowered Crown Prince Daeron.

Myles grimaced. "Sometimes I hate it when you're right. Still though . . . just give me good men and some grappling hooks and I can take a fortress regardless of the size of her walls. Not sure how good these flamethrowers of yours are. They haven't been truly tested in battle." He pinched his forehead like he had a headache. "We'll see them in action soon enough."

"And what action is that, captain-general?"

Blackheart rolled his eyes. "The invasion of Westeros, or did you forget?"

"I didn't."

"Something like this hasn't been attempted with this number before. Oh, twice we invaded but we failed just as many. An invasion force of this size is a bloody nightmare to supply and even with the three cities under our yoke, ships will prove a challenge. Not to mention the Westerosi fleets. We need to hire ourselves sellsails for warships and merchant marines for transport. Never forget the weather as well. We're coming into autumn; the winds and seas will get increasingly rough. A storm can sink our fleet. We may be locked at port if the seas and winds aren't in our favour."

"We could take the Stepstones," I suggested. "Hop from island to island. It may prove less intensive on our logistical corps and provide cover. It'll take longer, but it'll be safer." I didn't like it though. The longer the invasion took, the longer the continent had to prepare. Striking fast and hard was an important part of the plan. We needed to smash the local defences and establish a beachhead where supplies and even more men could be sailed in from Essos. A port was also required. I looked down at the maps Myles had in front of him. Small flags had been planted at preferred points, such as the Stormlands and areas in the Crownlands such as Massey's Hook and Crackclaw Point, though the latter lacked infrastructure. Crackclaw men skilled in guerrilla warfare was not something I wanted attacking my supply lines. Irregular warfare was the bane of even the best of armies.

"Mayhaps. Depends on our enemies, however. The Baratheons certainly. Stannis is a loyal whoreson. He'll fight for his nephew's crown should his own life depend on it. The bloody bastard refused to bend the knee during the siege of Storm's End and killed any man who tried to flee. He'll break before he bends. He's pure iron that one."

"And Renly?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. Stannis didn't see Joffrey as his nephew and would instead rise against him, unless we struck too soon but that wouldn't happen. We weren't in a position to attack the Seven Kingdoms while they remained united under King Robert Baratheon. The land needed to be divided.

"The third born son. More charismatic than Lord Stannis, I hear, though that's not a hard challenge to beat. It is Lord Stannis, Arryn, Eddard Stark and, of course, the Lion of the Westerlands." Toyne grimaced. "Lord Tywin will be the most dangerous with no lack of cunning and ruthlessness. Very dangerous."

I wasn't scared of Lord Tywin, he was perhaps one of the more overrated characters. "I'm not scared."

"Then you're a fool."

I took a sip, swishing it around the inside of my mouth. "No fool. I believe there are ways to deal with Lord Tywin Lannister. He's a prickly man who cares more for his reputation than anything else. His pride is his weakness. He dragged House Lannister up after his father ruined it, you know. He wants to be feared so House Lannister is feared. Each act he does is a signal to others."

That was his weakness. Under the façade, Lord Tywin Lannister was not a pure Machiavellian schemer who made decisions based solely on pragmatism. Many of the things he done were not pragmatic and instead foolish, so steeped in anger and pride and his own pettiness. Such as his treatment of Tysha, his father's mistress and the Princess Elia of Dorne. The risks he made were risky, yet they always worked out due to luck. He sent the Mountain to attack the Riverlands when he could have instead undermined the Starks and Tullys politically at court for them abducting Tyrion where he wouldn't come off as an aggressor. But he didn't, instead his pride was pricked so he decided it wise to break the king's peace and commit hundreds of war crimes because 'no man sheds Lannister blood with impunity.' To Tywin Lannister, nothing was more important than the political image he was trying to maintain.

 _I'll destroy that image and you'll act rash for being unable to let it stand_. _I'll declaw you, my lord. My claws are longer and sharper than yours_. "You want to beat Lord Lannister, similarly with Lord Stannis? Attack them where it hurts. The pricklier lords are the ones who hurt most when given offence and will act irrational because of it. Irrational men are easier to foresee than ones not fuelled by emotion. Undermine Lannister power and he'll come at us like a dog with the taste of blood – right into our trap. Mock him, belittle him, spread rumours and bring down his name. That is how we beat him."

Myles looked at me for a moment, then at his cup. "Sometimes I wonder. What happened that day? Jon Connington tells me you had a fever and then came back like this. Tis strange."

"How so?"

"You speak not like a boy. You clearly know more than you let on."

"Perhaps I do. You could say the Seven guide me." Better reason than any. A good thing about reading the books, better than knowing the sequence of events, was that I knew what made the characters tic, their likes, their dislikes. What they feared and what they loved. Information was the greatest weapon of all.

"Perhaps they do. You seem certain, but youth like yourself do not believe death will ever come for you. You think you're invincible and you're destined to win."

"We will win though," I smiled boyishly. "How can we not, when war is coming to Westeros?" I took a sip of my water, staring at the map's borders. "The usurpers reign is too unstable for there to be peace and, besides, the passing of a king is a ripe time for rebels to sprout up. He does have a twelve-year-old son and young kings are the bane of houses with regents fighting over them like bitches over a bone."

"You think there'll be civil war? I know the Spider has plans for one and the Dothraki invasion to happen, but do you think it'll be as effective as your father claims?"

"I'm certain of it." Varys will be laying the groundwork and Littlefinger will be supporting him, whether knowingly or not.

"Forgive me if I don't believe you."

I chuckled, looking up at him with a lazy smile. "You think we'll be all alone, captain-general? No, the Spider will be aiding in our conquest behind the scenes. It'll happen. Mark my words."

Myles Toyne frowned at me. "I forgot how you always get irritatingly smug when you believe your plans come together. You're definitely your father's son."

 _Arrogance is a tool that can be used like a mask_. I pouted. "Try to rain on my parade, why don't ya?"

He rose an eyebrow. "What you say may not come to be. You act like it's a given, that everything will follow your machinations."

 _Maybe because it will._ I nodded, averting my gaze. "I'm sorry, ser. Sometimes I forget myself."

"You regularly do. Remember what I told you about pride. It'll narrow your vision if not outright blind you. Dragon blood seems very susceptible to this most dangerous sin. Maybe you could do with some more humbling. Maybe clean the cauldrons after the men eat. How about that?"

I didn't say a word.

"Nothing to say, have you?" Myles Blackheart grinned darkly. "Well then, looks like you have no objections so—"

"Captain-general!" came a shout.

Both me and Toyne turned around to see a bald, red-faced man gasping for breath at the flap of the tent. There was a look of panic and urgency in his face.

"What is it, serjeant?" Myles asked calmly.

"Captain-general. We've received reports . . . from the Dothraki Sea."

* * *

AN: So here's the latest chapter. A rundown of the Myrish Alchemist's Guild, talk of the GC's activities in Essos and concluding with talk of Tywin. I do find Tywin Lannister overrated. He certainly had the presence, image and competent, but many of his decisions were wrong and laid the groundwork for much of what happened in Feast. The rise of the Sparrows was a populist movement whose origins were helped caused by Tywin's actions of abolishing many of the rights of the smallfolk as well as the destruction he caused in the Riverlands - religion being one of the few ways the smallfolk can actually form a movement. Not to mention Tywin broke one of the most important Machavellian rules: don't be hated.

I hoped you enjoyed this chapter. I'd like to hear your thoughts and next chapter should have the GC meeting the Dothraki.

Comments:

NeedingOfLifeGoalDude: Wow. Thanks for such a long review. I might not have polygamy as it only led to civil war for the Targaryen dynasty during its early days and I doubt the Faith would accept such a thing. Daenerys won't be sterile in this fic, that will be certain. The Khalasar mentioned is Drogo's and there will be a battle, I planned on a battle between him and the GC since the beginning. Despite numbers and mobility, the Golden Company would have the advantage with discipline and armour which the Dothraki regard as craven and are only described as wearing painted vests. It'll be an interesting battle to write.

TMI Fairy: The Dothraki invasion would be useless. Not only would transporting so many horses and men be a logistical burden, it wouldn't provide with enough of a positive result to justify such an act.

TheArisingOverlord: While I wouldn't say it's out of character, it did sound better in my head, thus I deleted it. Cheers.

osterreicher97: I completely agree with what you said. Tywin made a lot of enemies and the Lannister reputation fell apart as soon as he died. Then everyone with a grudge would take their revenge against his kin. Compared that to the Starks, where those loyal to them, almost all the North, are fighting to return them to Winterfell after everything. Everyone compares him to Robb, but it was Edmure who beat Tywin in battle. Another thing about Lord Tywin was that he never sought to improve Lannister power by marrying someone else, didn't properly raise Cersei to be a decent queen/politician despite his ambitions, nor did he stop seeing Jaime as his heir despite his son being a kingsguard knight. All those things came back to bite him, as it should have.

Najex: Dany isn't with the Dothraki. She'd been in Illyrio's manse for near a year before Khal Drogo met her. Due to butterflies, the time is different and would be further explained next chapter. You're right about Dany, but Viserys is still alive so she believes he's the rightful king, not herself. She just wants the house with a red door and a home, seeing Westeros more as her duty as the last remember of House Targaryen after Viserys committed suicide via Dothraki.

Rex: Drogo hasn't been to Pentos yet, probably thought to get himself a victory over the Golden Company and get the blood flowing before meeting his future queen. Aegon caused it by reforming the Triachy and making a few enemies in the process.

Blinded in a bolthole: I agree and it wouldn't surprise me. The same must have happened in Essos where dragons destroyed the dominant phalanx formation and cavalry become common in the aftermath, but they never managed to properly adapt once the dragons died off.


	15. Chapter 14: The Horselords

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 14: The Horselords**

* * *

Since finding myself in the body of Young Griff, I had learned much of the world and everything in it. I was quick to learn that the greatest weapon in my arsenal was my wits. I wasn't strong compared to the battle-hardened veterans who surrounded me. I was fast, but puberty made me more than a little awkward which had only been improved by Syrio's training regime. I wasn't even physically imposing like Robert Baratheon or Maegor the Cruel – I had a face that looked like it should be placed on a teen magazine and was just as intimidating. But I wasn't stupid. Sheltered, sure. I'd been protected from most of the problems of a medieval society and that in turn made me cocky. But between intelligence and experience, I'd enough skills that, in a crisis, I should be able to hold my own.

This was perhaps the first heart pounding moment I've experienced.

The news we just received made me fear whether we could win this fight. Sure, the Golden Company held off against sellswords, but the free companies never enjoyed facing heavy casualties and would break before the true killing would start. The Dothraki, on the other hand, didn't comprehend the meaning of retreat. I mocked them constantly but that was because I never thought I would ride against them.

I was wrong and they were now galloping straight towards us. A massive host of forty to a hundred-thousand riders – depending on who you asked. Though inferior to our smaller force, their sheer numbers and ferocity would cost us dearly whether we win or lose.

"Are you most certain?" Myles asked Maar who stood before the officers inside the crowded tent.

The Lysene nodded. The spymaster of the Golden Company wore a steel breastplate emblazoned with the all-seeing eye, purple silks that matched his eyes and various pouches containing scrolls and other documents. Around his neck was a necklace of golden tiny skulls. Lysono Maar had many men and women in those pockets of his, all working to further the Golden Company's influence even before my arrival. A skilled man with a very specific skill set, one we'd been quick to take advantage of. He was the Golden Company's eyes, and one that was meant to inform us of any threat, but it seemed this time he had failed.

"I'm more than certain," he said with a drawl. "The Dothraki are coming from the north. They have crossed the Rhoyne and diverted south in the aim to pillage the Disputed Lands." His pale-lilac eyes surveyed the officers before him. "Peace has made the Disputed Lands rich and bloated, a perfect target for any horde. Our presence has scared off the smaller khalasars and those more cautious and craven. Khal Zekko never travels further west than Qohor, demanding tribute before returning to the Dothraki Sea. Motho is old and his khalasar near as much, getting smaller and smaller by the day. But there are a few more than willing to take their chances and aspiring khals love a challenge."

"Khal Drogo," Jon Connington grimaced.

Maar nodded with a shallow dip of a head. "We very much present a chance for loot and battle. Though it may not solely be that. My spies have brought forth rumours that a city may have hired the khal to ride against us. The most likely suspects are Volantis or even Braavos, though I can't be certain. Afraid to say it's not unknown for either to hire the horselords against those who pose a threat to their hegemony."

"Maybe they're even working together," Gorys Edoryen wondered aloud.

"What do we do?" Ser Flowers asked, wiping the wine running down his chin with the back of his hand. "We face the Dothraki in the field?"

Connington snapped to him, deep etches in his furrowed brow. "This is Khal Drogo we're talking about. One would be a fool to face him in battle. He leads the largest khalasar, numbering forty-thousand strong and has been reputed to be undefeated."

"We've beaten the Dothraki numerous times," Flowers grunted. "Why should this time be any different?"

Ser Marq Mandrake laughed. "Aye. We march off to crush him, shall we, Flowers? In the open field with more than double our number in cavalry?"

"Solely cavalry," Tristan Rivers interjected. "Light horse at that. We put ourselves in a strong position, fortify it and the Dothraki will be unable to displace us. They'll smash against our lines and fall."

I nodded. "One of the greatest Dothraki khalasars in history was beaten by three thousand Unsullied. The Golden Company beat three-thousand Unsullied when they stormed Qohor. That time, the Unsullied had the advantage of walls and archers."

"That's if they decide to fight us," growled Ser Brendel Byrne, a weathered veteran with a rugged scar running down his cheek from where he'd been attacked by a pirate in the Stepstones. "They're light cavalry, as you said. They can just outmanoeuvre us and raid the countryside. Attack our scouts and logistics. We'll starve and lose men by the day."

Flowers shook his head. "Have we ever known Dothraki to use tactics such as that when there's an army out to meet them? We'll be facing beasts, not men."

"Beasts that crushed the Kingdom of Sarnor ages past," countered Byrne. "Primitive, aye, but they know how to fight and fight with a fervour unlike anything else."

That only led to more shouting and chaos as each of the officers decided they needed to add something to the conversation. Roars of outrage and argument drowned out everyone's voices in a sea of clamour and bitterness coming to the surface. Pykewood Peake bellowed that Jon Lothston was a craven with milk in his veins and Caspor Hill declared Malo Jayn was not worth the golden rings on his person. I'd never seen such a thing happen here before.

It only ended when Blackheart's fist slammed against on the table; sending a cup of wine to the floor and silencing everyone. "Officers of the Company," he growled, standing up with that same face that sent fear into the hearts of recruits and veterans alike. "We are professionals, not amateurs. We're the Golden Company, not a chaotic rabble. I will not stand by and listen to you bicker like children who need a good hard smack to the rear. Now you listen to me, all of you. One will speak, and the rest will listen. Understood?"

We all nodded.

"Good. Now Jon, you will speak first. At least you didn't join in with this shameful display."

He returned to his seat and Jon Connington stood up, giving a quick nod of thanks to his lover. "It seems that the common opinions are that we either stand and face Khal Drogo or flee. Though I stress caution, must I remind you that we swore an oath to the ruling magisters and archons in protecting the Disputed Lands from any aggressor. We can't be seen to ignore that else we'll be declared oathbreakers and that'll only undermine our authority. Such a thing would also lower the reputation we're reliant upon and strengthen the factions in the cities who oppose our operations. They may get enough influence to bring down our hold on the Three Daughters and cease payments. Should such a thing happen, our host will collapse. Too many mouths and not enough coin will ensure we'll face desertion at best or a coup at worst."

Harry swallowed loudly and rubbed his thick neck. "I quite like my neck, ser. I don't desire to lose it because the men didn't get paid on time. The Father Above knows we're barely affording what we've got now."

"A similar thing would happen if they pillage the estates and plantations," Maar muttered. "Allowing them to be looted would, too, weaken our authority."

"But we can't go out against them in the open, now can we?" questioned Ser Jon Lothston. "As Mandrake said, double our number and much faster, especially with such a warlord leading them. The battle can only go one way."

"We've faced the Dothraki numerous times before. We've detailed their tactics and strategies, or lack thereof," Gorys Edoryen of the dyed red hair said, twirling one of the curls around his finger. "We've beaten each one we've marched against. This Khal Drogo should be no different."

"Even if we do win, we don't know the cost," Harry declared. "Remember, we can't risk too much for our future ambitions. We lose enough men, our hold on the Disputed Lands and our client cities would weaken considerably. Each option guarantees risks. Should we hold up and—"

While that was going on, I sat in silence, slouching casually in my seat, dyed-hair draped before my eyes and covering the top of the world into a blue blur. I softly clicked my tongue and toyed with the empty cup I'd just recently drained.

I never expected the butterflies would be disturbed in such a way. I could almost laugh, but I felt like kicking the chair and send it flying across the tent. My plan was destroyed unless the reports were false and Drogo decided to return to the original route towards Pentos. I knew that wouldn't happen, so that left us with a difficult choice. Either shy away from the khal in the hope it'll leave canon unaffected so I could potentially get dragons at the cost of the army and whatever we created here – which was not something I wanted in the slightest. Me and the others had put too much effort to just lose it and I knew the cities, growing ever more resilient, would just love a chance to pry away the shackles of the Golden Company, especially if they were being aided by Braavos and Volantis. Fighting the Dothraki, however, would surely eliminate the possibilities of dragons that could end the war in Westeros quickly and allow the centralising of the crown I desired so much. I could suggest we fight and that may lead to all our deaths. The casualties promised to be nothing if not heavy. But that way we may retain our hold on the Triachy.

I took a deep, steady breath, then looked around at the men. Opinion was split. Be as it may, the Dothraki had already destroyed my plans. Even if we rode out and beat them, our army might lose in such a way that ensured it was in no position to attack Westeros, even amidst a civil war between four kings (I don't count Renly because screw him). Ser Brendel Byrne was right, however. Besides the occasional forest and shallow river, the Disputed Lands were remarkably flat with meadows and fields which was the perfect terrain for the Dothraki and their mounts. With lack of natural defensive terrain, the Golden Company could be surrounded and suffer death from a thousand cuts thanks to the Dothraki's superior mobility and greater numbers. We lacked archers and cavalry and . . . something ticked in my mind. The Dothraki hated infantry and looked down upon them, worthy only to be ridden down. I didn't know how cunning Khal Drogo was, but I doubted he was a revolutionary tactician. I would use their own cultural beliefs against them.

I looked up as the tent once more grew increasingly chaotic. "My lords."

No one responded.

" _My lords!_ "

Once again, no one took notice.

Deciding words weren't going to cut it, I looked at the glass cup in hand and lobbed it at the wall. It hit, bounced off the canvas and smashed against the ground. Everyone turned to me and I smiled most innocently, tilting my head to the side. "Now I've got your attention, may I speak freely as a peer?"

Jon looked surprised and Myles looked somewhat amused, if only slightly and his voice carried a sarcastic drawl, "Seeing as you asked politely, you may."

I stood up and gave him a nod of thanks. My mouth went dry and I regretted throwing the glass just on the off chance there was still some drink there. I couldn't show that and strengthened my voice. "Officers of the Golden Company, you bicker and argue. You speak of fleeing or fighting, of remaining behind the walls of a fort and letting the Dothraki pillage and rape to their hearts content, to look weak when we're the greatest fighting force in the world. Here is what I say. I say we fight. Everyone calls the Dothraki monsters, beasts in human skin. I've never met one, so I cannot say. But there is one truth about monsters: in the end, they die. If they didn't, they'd be worthy of our fear and instead we'd call them gods. Why should we fear them? We're the men of Bittersteel, discipline is the mother's milk we've nursed upon. Why should we buckle and shy away from some barbarians in painted vests? The Others take them all!" I took a breath and paused for dramatic effect. _Better to have an army of flesh and steel than dragons made of words and wishes_. "I say we march forth and destroy this horde. Let us, the Golden Company, show these barbarians what we can do!"

Everyone looked at me like I was a fool, but I continued.

"You think I'm soft in the head? That I'm a simpleton? No. I am not. We know how Dothraki work, how they fight their battles. To let them march against us is nothing short of suicide. But sometimes the best defence is an offence. We shouldn't let them determine the rules of engagement. We should and I know because if Maar is right and the Braavosi or whoever else hired the Dothraki, that means we're the target to be destroyed and Khal Drogo, the bloodhound he is, will be coming after us whether you agree with me or not. Remember Qohor where they smashed against the Unsullied, again and again. Did they adapt? Did they outflank? Did they beat the Unsullied? No, they did not. They charged again and again. They lost. Later, we, the Golden Company, stormed Qohor, we beat the Unsullied holding the walls. We did what the Dothraki failed to do. Why, because we know how to fight like a proper army. Let them charge against us, see where it gets them."

I gazed at everyone who had grown silent and my throat was like I had swallowed a few buckets of sand.

There were a few mutterings, with Flowers praising the speech with a laugh and a gulp of his wine. Most, however, looked sceptical.

"Nice little speech, Young Griff," Myles said, not at all impressed. "But it seems you underestimate the opposition. Khal Drogo in undefeated and is heralded by many to be the greatest khal in living memory. While they would say that about many, I would put greater stock in this one. How do you propose we beat him?"

I paused for a moment. "We've faced the Dothraki before, we've documented how they fight and how we beat them." _Just like the Byzantines_. "But if you need to ask me, I say we find a defensive position right in their way, be it atop the hills or a river crossing. There are two lakes to the east and many rivers coming off them. One such is to the north, near Myr. We can make a stand there."

Myles didn't look happy but before he could say anything, Jon Connington spoke. "I agree with my lad, captain-general. If the khal was hired, we may very well be the target, so it'd be wise to prepare. The Dothraki are little more than dogs to kill and butcher and rape. There are advantages to my boy's plan."

Maar chuckled. "The Dothraki wouldn't expect us to make the first move, seeing as they're always on the offensive. Should we fight, we should take up defensive terrain. Going against the khal would also be a sign of strength and those against us would think twice."

Flowers nodded. "Aye. We are a free company, but the Disputed Lands are ours. We are paid to keep it like their precious watchmen. They pay us and I like this arrangement. If I need to kill a few horsefuckers, so be it." He grinned wickedly. "We're more powerful than we've ever been, and we've crushed khal's before and armies many times our number. Why fear this one?"

Myles stared, a flash of anger across his features as they turned against him. He muttered a curse but, with most of the officer corps now against him, he reluctantly agreed.

We were riding off.

 **...**

My time in Illyrio's manse in Pentos had made me forget what being on the march was like. Mounted atop a splendid mare with a coat as dark as sin, I pulled off my straw hat and waved it before my face, trying to make up for the lack of wind. A part of me wanted to give up, kick my horse into a gallop and leave this place if only to avoid the harsh Essosi sun. Grunting, I pulled out the bota bag and poured the the contents onto my face. It might be wasting water, but I didn't care as it ran down my neck and mail. I needed it and drained the last of the liquid like a hungry babe on its mother's breast. It only brought momentary relief.

Behind me matched the army numbering twenty-thousand. The column stretched back miles upon miles, of armoured men and horses, wagons that functioned both to carry baggage and fortifications, pack mules and donkeys and carts full of tents, cooking pots, food and wine, all things that were needed despite the men carrying much of their own equipment. Though the march was long and rigorous, Connington had assured me that we were making quick pace for such a host, using the stone roads linking the various settlements and abandoned cities that littered the Disputed Lands. Around us was a land both living and dead, a landscape of deserted towns made of pale stone, abandoned palaces and ancient forts, villages that laid empty as our foragers and scouts rode atop our fastest mounts. Our route also took us through the sweltering heat of the open plains and fields of vast latifundiums owned by the Essosi elite, rolling hills which was occasionally broken up with the small forest or farming towns inhabited by shy and anxious townsfolk. Streams and brooks snaked their way through deep hollows in the earth and the army drained whatever water source it passed.

Thanks to the heat, it was a relief whenever the sun set. The encampment sprawled outwards, the tents and pavilions forming a settlement with near as many inhabitants as a Westerosi city. Fires flickered as men sat around, laughing and drinking, enjoying the women who trailed along and overall causing a racket. Despite this, one would be a fool to miss the tense atmosphere. I had switched my thin cotton tunic with warmer garbs, with a woollen cloak to wrap around my shoulders. While the days were blisteringly hot, the nights were always ridiculously cold. Unlike the men, I didn't have the freedom to have fun and needed to do paperwork before I could even think of relaxing. Thankfully, Dalabhar had been a great help, speeding through them like an overclocked computer on crack. As always, he did the mother lode but not once did he complain, merely cracking his large knuckles and saying he was done, before asking whether I had any more for him to do. I didn't so when I finished my own duties, we rewarded ourselves to relax near the fire with what remained of Serpent Squad – only four now – as well as my other friends I formed in this strange, strange land called Essos.

Damon sat cross-legged, cradling a glass of cheap wine on his lap and excitedly told a story about the time one of Homeless Harry's elephants had been taken out for a joyride by some drunken sellsword who'd decided it was a wise idea to impress some of the more risqué camp followers. His face now featured its fair share of scars, but that only seemed to add to his handsome looks rather than detract from it, and his golden hair was artfully dishevelled in a way that would normally require gel and a couple of hours before the mirror, yet Damon could do it naturally in a most annoying fashion.

Vaquo sat beside him, looking like he was about to nod off any second. He didn't have a good day, but then again, none of us had. His expression was what one could expect after sucking their way through a basket of lemons. Vaquo didn't like riding nor being outside. He would regularly complain about sunburn and spending some time with the Company actually gave his skin some colour. So, he sat gloomy and drunk. Despite coming from a very aristocratic family that could make the Lannisters look working-class, he was terrible at holding his drink, which only made it hilarious.

When Lyra arrived, in an red and orange dress with a translucent veil covering the lower portion of her face, Rickard stood up and gave a salute, greeting her as 'milady.'

Lyra rolled her eyes. "I hope you don't expect me to return that," she drawled. "I've beliefs that makes that all but impossible."

I raised an eyebrow. "Are they the very same ones that make you think you're funny?"

"Ah, the cruel commander who leads us, my dearest friend," she told Dalabhar, dramatically laying a hand over her heart with a false look of hurt.

"Is that a fly I hear?" the Summer Islander asked, "buzzing around my ear?"

Lyra's neatly trimmed brows rose slightly in interest. "And Young Griff tells me you're the most skilled of listeners. Tis a shame I find out the truth."

"A most saddening thing, I'm sure. But I'm certain somewhere deep in your heart, you'll forgive me."

 _What heart?_ I wondered.

"For you, my love, I can forgive _anything_." She then wiggled her eyebrows.

Dalabhar grunted and turned away while Serpent Squad laughed, because of course _they_ would. I rolled my eyes. "Lyra, could you please, _please_ , stop verbally molesting my men."

"And why would I do that?" Humour flavoured her words.

"Because all you do is annoy me," the Summer Islander complained.

"Knowing Lady Lyra, that's half the reason she does it," Damon grinned, leaning back with a chuckle at his own joke. He then gave me a wink and I rolled my eyes once more. They'd been most surprised when I brought Lyra along and it didn't take long for the men to conclude that I was sleeping with her, which couldn't further from the truth.

"And you do fall for it a little too easily," I added, turning to my adjutant. "Besides being the largest man here and having the strength to rip the head off a horse, you really have thin skin when it comes to her."

Lyra chuckled, removing the veil to reveal her cheeky smile. "Please, he won't do that. You all know I could strangle him with his own shadow should he try to squeeze my neck like a banana."

"You don't squeeze bananas," the adjutant said.

And before Lyra could speak up, with what was obviously going to be lewd, I butted in, "You peel them and that's the end of that." I didn't want to know what my magic specialist was going to say, but I knew it was going to make Serpent Squad's day and I've already had enough rude imagery for a year. Besides, looking at Vaquo showed me how innocent the poor Volantene was. Him and his virgin ears had been spared once more.

Lyra pouted. "You're no fun."

"I'm not meant to be fun. I've got duties and most of those don't involve cracking jokes. Just like how my adjutant isn't meant to be the butt of them." Initially, it was Vaquo who'd been the one to suffer, until Lyra got bored from his lack of reaction and perhaps got tired of explaining the jokes meant to be at his expense.

"My young griffin, what duties may they be?"

"Payments to the soldiers, logistics and that sort of thing. Otherwise making sure I'm doing everything correct. Oh, and to find holes in my ideas."

She grinned at that. "Must be a hard duty to fulfil."

"I don't envy his position."

"Neither do I. He's dealing with you."

"And that makes it all the harder," I admitted, taking a sip of my waterskin, staring into the flames. Sometimes I could see images in it, but I considered that more a trick of the eyes than anything. The most annoying thing was that I didn't know whether it was magic relating to my heritage or just my mind playing tricks on me. Either way, I didn't like it.

Dalabhar shrugged his massive broad shoulders. "He's not that bad. Arrogant, sure, but what child in power isn't?"

"Thanks," I said with a sickeningly sweet smile. "Good to know you've got my back."

"That's what I'm paid to do," the Summer Islander stated. "Your scribe and bodyguard."

 _And butler_ , I could have added, though I doubted anyone in this world knew what a butler was. They properly thought it was some kind of fruit. "I trust you have my back when we faced the Dothraki in the field. I don't want one of them to get behind me."

Lyra pursed her lips. "You are confident against the Dothraki. You've never faced them."

"Tis true," I agreed, smirking. From what I found, acting smug when you truly didn't know what to say or do was better. It made people think you were more competent then you truly were. Worked on earth as much as Essos, though it worked even better here. "The Dothraki have lost battles before. They win only because their enemy breaks first and they chase after the survivors. It's simple really, we hold our ground and they charge directly into our spears. If they won't, well, they'll get outranged by our archers and Vaquo's engines. Those machines of yours will be capable, won't they?"

The Volantene nodded. "Repeating scorpions should tear them apart. They range further than the summer archers, though can't fire as quickly. They lack the power of standard designs, tis true, but I doubt it'll make much difference. They'll still penetrate mail and padding from maximum distance just due to the weight of the projectiles. Dothraki don't wear armour. It'll go right through them."

"Indeed," Duck mused as he scratched his long ginger beard, as he tended to do when deep in thought and wanted everyone else to know. "Those machines would do wonders against the horselords. But what if they go around?"

"I spoke with Myles Toyne," I said softly. "A favoured tactic of the Dothraki is to outflank on the open ground and there is nowhere more open when the Disputed Lands . . . or the Dothraki Sea. From reading the past conflicts between the Dothraki, we'll fortify our position and wait for them to come to us. They may raid the surrounding countryside, but should we be the objective, the Dothraki would want to fight. And besides, our force is mostly infantry and they look down upon anyone who doesn't have a horse between their legs."

"But Khal Drogo is said to be among the best warriors the Dothraki have," Duck told me like I was too foolish to know.

"Warrior doesn't mean tactician. The Dothraki get leadership positions by being the best fighters. They respect only fighting and horsemanship. That is all. We'll use their culture against them. We'll crush them so hard they'll never rise again."

"You're right. He is confident," Vaquo said, cradling his wine on his lap.

"That or stupid," I grinned. "They both seem one and the same, don't you think?"

"I'd say stupid," laughed Damon but Rolly gave him a pointed look and the golden-haired boy went silent.

I only smiled, though internally I was worried. Not only for fighting against the Dothraki – which I did have a good feeling about – but what we'd do after. The plan with the Targaryens, the dragon eggs . . . Westeros. Chewing the inside of my lip, I sighed and looked into the flames. _All this knowledge of things to come has been keeping me in a box, unable to look outside of it. Lyra, you are right, damn you. It has left me a slow thinker, unable to react to changing circumstances_. This would be the thing that ended that. _No more keeping with canon. Embrace the chaos you've caused, use it as a ladder._

And so I would.

 **...**

The Twin Lakes were the closest thing to natural borders the Disputed Lands had in the east. The northern lake was called the Eye of Myr and from it to the sea flowed the Myrwater which provided Myr with a natural boundary that protected the city from most of the fighting. To the north was another river that reached as far up as the Rhoyne called the River Rynlos and from it sprouted smaller tributaries. With Khal Drogo's host coming south, the Rynlos provided the best location to hold our ground.

The river the Dothraki had to cross swelled more than waist deep at its shallowest point, with steep slopes and a current that made it tricky to wade through. That made defending it even more advantageous. Unless they decided to go around and press our backs to the river, we had the advantage. It was dangerous attacking a more mobile opponent, but Myles was a skilled commander and screened our movements with a large number of horse that'll delay them should the Khalasar launch a surprise attack. The Dothraki were heavy on cavalry – exclusively that – so they could move about a lot faster than we could.

But besides the natural boundary, it wasn't as I hoped. It was flat fields and plains that stretched out far and wide, a flat expanse that reached to the distant horizon, endless grasses and fields with tall blades of golden wheat rippling in the slight wind, and only broken up by small clusters of villages and the occasional fortified town. It was beautiful, but perfect for a mounted force. I only hoped Toyne knew what he was doing.

"The Khal is on our trail," Ser Rolly Duck grunted as he galloped towards me. He was sweltering under his plate and his orange hair had grown long and tangled. "They say he's sworn an oath to destroy us and pillage the Disputed Lands before once more turning to Pentos."

 _Seems like he wants to get the blood pumping before he meets his underage wife_. Masking my concern with that same smirk I'd perfected, I replied with, "And we'll be waiting."

I looked towards the wagon fort being assembled. They formed a square with crossbowman mounted inside and the wagons were chained together. There wasn't enough war wagons or supply carriages to fully protect us, so other men were making fortifications to add to it. Jon Connington had assembled our heavy infantry on the riverbed should the enemy decide to pay us an unexpected visit. The last thing we needed was to be caught with our trousers down.

Rolly let out a noise of disapproval. "I don't like it here, Young Griff. Out in the open and not . . ."

"It's either this or flee. Should that happen, our authority in those cities will break like peasants before a charge of knights. Regardless whether we properly make a fort or leave ourselves in the open, they'll seek to destroy us."

"They want to destroy everything. They're a plague of locusts. They kill everything and leave, only to return when the next years yields are to be harvested."

"Best destroy those locusts then," I said without missing a beat. "You know what stops a swarm?"

"What?"

I grinned. "Wildfire. I've a plan and it should be a sight to see."

"Against few tens of thousands Dothraki? You sure we have enough?"

"We don't have to kill them all," I said with a wave of the hand. "We just have to break them. If their leader is dead, they break up. It's not only the khal keeping the Dothraki together for he has kos as well. We just have to target the commanders and horde will be a headless chicken unable to see."

It was a few days later, when we fortified our camp with ditches and sharpened stakes, that the Dothraki were getting increasingly reported by our scouts. The Dothraki's outriders kept an eye on our position from a distance but were always gone whenever a force was sent to deal with them. Say what you want, but they were fast. I stood with Myles Toyne as some light cavalrymen returned, battered and bleeding from a skirmish where only a handful of sellswords survived. Just the sight of them made my stomach drop.

One of their number – their officer – was a pasty-faced Loratheen by the name of Harrando H'arla, a small and weedy creature with pale narrow eyes and greasy dark hair. "The men managed to take a few of their scouting parties out," he said with pride in his voice, though everyone else looked too weak to stand. There was also a feverish look to him that unsettled me. "Showed them that they're not the biggest danger on the plains. So we've returned to bring you the good news of their arrival and now we're ready to wade in blood."

It looked like he had already done so. His padded garments were dark and wet, and his hair was matted. Harrando looked worse than the others, yet he was grinning from ear to ear. _I may have found my own Mountain_. That was an unsettling thought.

"They've finally arrived, faster when we hoped," Myles mused, scratching his chin, obviously pondering on what to do. He put a lot of faith in his scouts, did Myles Blackheart. "Serjeant. What are their numbers? Did you manage to get an account?"

"We're most likely fucked," Harrando said with a large shit eating grin, wiping the blood off his cheek. He then added a hasty "ser" at the end of the sentence when Myles' face tightened.

"It's good to see the loss of more than half of your men has left your usual good cheer unaffected," Blackheart said blandly. "We need more information than that. Numbers?"

"Thirty, forty thousand warriors, give or take," the man said more informatively. "We scouted their camp, leaving a little gift for the sentries. The Dothraki horde itself should number a hundred thousand, tearing the ground apart and draining lakes and rivers. The inland seas are where they needed to go for water. Logistics would require it. But most are women, children and the infirm, not to mention slaves. A lesser number would be warriors. The latter ones have been slowing them down."

"What gift did you leave them?" It was Jon Connington who asked, sounding more tired than anything.

"Ran into a group of outriders. We left their heads on display outside their camp with horse cocks stuffed down their throats," the man answered while his men loudly groaned. "They didn't approve."

"I wonder why?" I mused.

"Then we were chased away, with eight thousand horses coming after us, Captain-General Blackheart ser. Should be a few hours away, ser."

"Those eight thousand will be forming the vanguard," Myles said, his hand brushing the pommel of his sword. "The khal's finest most like."

"Only eight thousand?" Harry asked, confused.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. _They're this close . . ._ I felt my hands numb at the thought.

"We've planned for this," Toyne declared, breaking the silence. "The Dothraki will charge when the rest of their force arrives and will attempt to overwhelm us. We still have time. Prepare the men and pray to whatever gods you believe in. Many of us here are not going to make it."

"If they do, they can outflank us and push us against the river," Jon Connington said bitterly. "Should that happen, we're dead." He shot me a death glare. Not that I could blame him. This entire thing was my idea, but they were the ones who agreed with it. Myles was still in charge after all.

"Go get yourself healed, serjeant," Myles said, turning to the scout. "We need everyone who can hold a sword for this battle."

The man grinned cheerfully. "They'll be sorry messing with us."

 **...**

The next few hours passed too quickly for my tastes. We made our move on the gaming board and had to wait for our opponent to do likewise, then reap whatever spoils were to be had.

The men of the Golden Company had been busy digging extra ditches and planting rows of stakes to ward off cavalry – just the right height to slide right into a horse's belly . . . It was a horrible thought that upset my more modern – not to mention very British – sensibilities when it came to animals, but it was needed. This was how the English protected themselves from French knights and they were much more heavily armoured than Dothraki screamers. To where we couldn't dig, war wagons had been placed, manned by archers with guards stationed both beside and beneath to cut the legs of horses from out under them.

Due to our terrain and opposition, Myles thought it wise for the Golden Company to form a defensive square around the camp which provided a fortified position to withdraw to if needed. While we lacked mobility, we didn't need it. Our strategy was banking on the khal and his riders slamming into our lines. Various traps had been laid and while they wouldn't be enough to halt a cavalry charge, they would surely delay them and make the Dothraki great targets for archers. We'll bleed them severely before they even reach our lines and when they finally did so, it'll be a bloodbath unlike anything I had seen so far. A large portion of the army was placed in reserve, ready to break through once the Dothraki were engaged, encircle and isolate pockets to be destroyed. Light cavalry such as them were terrible in close quarters – especially against their more heavily armoured brethren. But we'd have to wait. The Dothraki were cavalry archers first and foremost so they'd love to fire upon us, but we'll pay them back in kind. Few battles were decided by arrow fire alone. We just had to whether the storm.

I only hoped Khal Drogo would act the fool.

The horde was milling in the distance, a near infinite line of horses. It had started as a trickle at first but soon became a flood. There were thousands, untold thousands, and behind them was a cloud of dust. The men cursed and muttered prayers to whichever gods they worshipped. Duck made a gesture with his hands that could only be the Seven's equivalent of the Christ symbol. I never took him for being religious, but people facing death had a tendency to find faith. I only watched, feeling slightly confident of the odds. I'd seen a few undisciplined armies in my time here: rabbles of sellswords that were without peer when it came to fleeing, pirates who were fierce and colourful in their language but no true warriors, but the Dothraki took the cake. None of the Golden Company needed much screaming and a few killing of subordinates to get the others to follow orders. It was a satisfying sight. Oh, the Dothraki may look terrifying with their long braids covered with bells, howling and shouting like demons, waving blades in the air and being painted with tattoos, but even if they manage to get past our archers, I had no doubt our armoured infantry would run them down with polearms.

From the reserve, I watched atop a hill. Their horde was split into four parts to attack each side of the formation. That left each part under the command of a ko and, by my estimates, each one would seek to outdo the others so rivalries would get in the way of collaboration. Fully encircling us would force our army into fight rather than flight which negated a major problem with morale, so I could thank them for that. The Dothraki didn't organise their force as much as cramp their cavalrymen into solid blocks, perhaps hoping to break the Golden Company through attrition. We planned for such a thing but there was only so much we could do at the end of the day. Many commanders would be squeamish about bloodying their forces that badly to win, but the Dothraki weren't most commanders.

Looking through the Myrish spyglass and taking note of what laid before me, Lyra groaned. I turned and her face was nothing short of a grimace. "We're all going to die. More importantly, _I'm_ going to die, and that's all thanks to you. I hope you rot in the worst possible hell, Aegon . . . though knowing you, you may find a way to be its king."

I chuckled and slapped her playfully on the back. She looked venomous at me and I rolled my eyes. "We'll win and you'll get a lot of bodies to practise on." _How many of these Dothraki are rapists?_ I wondered, but I knew most were. With similar views as the Ironborn, rape was a source of pride for these people. Using them for science was perhaps the only way they could be of use for humanity. I still had my restrictions for her though. Boundaries were always good things to have. _She'll find to overstep them though, I'm sure of it_.

She sighed bitterly. "Forgive my foolishness, Mother Rhoyne. I just hope this is worth it. Otherwise I'm going to curse you before I end it." By _end it,_ she was referring to the poison she'd crafted for herself to consume. Lyra would rather kill herself than be taken alive.

 _I'm already cursed. That's why I'm here and standing next to you_.

With the howls on the other side of the river, the Dothraki cantered forward, not yet in a gallop. Even as far away I was, the sounds of them were like the beat of a hundred thousand drums as they charged forward on the hard ground, edging closer and closer. Even I was getting worried at the sights of thousands of mounted killers decked out in crude tattoos and bells nearing the river. My hand was shaking, but I grabbed hold of it and brushed the worries aside. _Myles wouldn't allow this if we couldn't win_. I trusted him.

Soon enough, the first volley was raised from the foot archers and Vaquo's engines, throwing bolts and lobbing pots of wildfire. I watched them arc and hit their target with disciplined accuracy. Crossbow bolts and longbow shafts all found their targets, punching through thin painted vests, downing mounts and throwing riders from their saddles only to be trampled by their companions behind. The pots hit, bursting forth in a fiery explosion that set men alight and screaming.

Soon enough, the Dothraki returned in kind. Their cavalry archers, reputed to be undefeated on the Dothraki Sea, let loose in greater numbers at the small screening force of light cavalry we had before the main host. Commander Kojo, a former Dothraki ko of a Khalasar we defeated previously, had been most adamant of fighting his people on his own terms. But unlike the host before us, his men learned from their defeat. The Neo-Dothraki, as I called them, were armoured in suits of lamellar, thick padding and silken vests. They were heavier than Khal Drogo's horde and acted as a willing distraction for the foot archers. With horn-and-sinew bows, they went back and forth, performing a caracole circle and Parthian shot. Numbering only six hundred – barely even that – they were outnumbered and, despite giving as good as they got, were forced back.

 _At least you wasted their arrows . . ._

With our few cavalry archers dealt with, the Dothraki brought their wraith against the army proper. A shower of arrows shattered against the armoured blocks of infantry who hunkered down. Men rose their shields and the pikemen's long spears helped deflect some of the arrows but many succumbed. Despite it all, they held strong and drummers drummed defiantly as the Dothraki roared across the battlefield.

 _They should have warned us we'd fight in the shade_.

Sooner rather than later, it seemed Khal Drogo had enough, and his main force lurched forward. The first I saw was the force pushing through the river, chugging through with heavy splashes. It slowed them down and some even fell after slipping in the mud or tricky footing, while their comrades galloped carelessly, screaming at the top of their lungs with curved swords raised high above their heads.

"Over there!" Duck cried.

I turned away from the river to where the rest of the Dothraki pushed forward as one, each block going from one huge mass into what vaguely looked like a wedge formation. Some actual strategy. I was impressed if solely because my expectations were so low.

Calm as ever, and as if we weren't going to get penned in by cavalry, Dalabhar calmly said, "Should I give the order?" He stood beside me, ever the silent guardian. His face was a stoic mask, expressionless and the words spoken held zero emotion.

Turning back to the river, I saw most were halfway. "Let some of them cross first," I answered. I came up with the idea and it was me who had to decide when it was going to be done. Myles Toyne said it was needed. The other officers were busy in the battle and, being a Blackfyre, I needed to be kept alive. At least Serpent Squad and my own century was with the reserve so they wouldn't take the blunt of the fighting. Jon Connington and Blackheart and many others were on the front lines, making sure the men wouldn't run nor cower. For now, I'd a job where I could watch from relative safety. Truly was I one lucky git.

"Let's hope the stakes do their job then," he grunted.

The first Dothraki screamers got out the river, mounts soaking wet as their riders kicked the ill-tempered beasts forward. A volley of crossbow bolts was quick to hit them. It did little more than hinder. Many died, but not fast enough. The other riders galloped forward smoothly, jumping over their dead and dying. _What I wouldn't give to have those horses_ , I thought airily, clicking my tongue. They were agile and faster than anything with a rider on its back had any right to be. As expected, it didn't take long to reach the infantry, well, they would have been if we didn't plant a little welcome gift.

They were many things I had experience since finding myself adventuring this world. The bells of Norvos, the Black Walls of Volantis, a Pentoshi sunset and the Titan of Braavos. There was nothing like those sights. But they paled in comparison to the fiery wall that met the Dothraki. They charged directly into a line of Pyromarines armed with our newly crafted flamethrowers. With the sound of a shrill horn, the flamethrowers burst forth their substance, bellowing wicked dark-green flames towards the coming riders. The horses screeched in pain, rising to stand atop their hindquarters and throwing off their riders only to be killed by spearmen or the Pyromarines who shot further but less concentrated blasts. Not only that, but in the corner of my eyes, a dozen green explosions bloomed into existence from the ground. They were bright enough to blind me for a few seconds. What remained were plumes of smoke and burning holes in the ground.

 _Thank you, Haldon, you bloody genius_. Alongside caltrops scattered around were small wildfire landmines with long ropes coated in flammable chemicals ignited once the Dothraki got close enough. Some of them hadn't gone off, sadly, but those that did were more effective than expected.

Lyra hummed. "Not bad for such a reduction in firepower," she conceded when the shock wore off. I grinned at her words. While our wildfire would be weaker than the Westerosi equivalent, it was still deadly, especially when concentrated. This seemed to have been the tipping point for some Dothraki. They'd been riding through volleys of arrows, fell to traps and many had charged headfirst into explosions of green fire before even reaching our lines.

It wasn't enough.

While many turned their mounts around, others kicked their mounts forward. Whether this was a glimmer of hope before we got crushed or going to pave our way to victory was yet to be seen.

Besides the flaming bodies that smelled of burning flesh, the explosions had torn up the ground. At the riverbed, the Dothraki's mounts were almost knee-deep in mud. Even as lightly armoured as they were, they were struggling. Mounts stumbled on hidden rocks and collapsed, crying in pain as dismounted riders walked bowlegged before being thrown to the ground by their own team. It was nothing short of chaos as others took valuable moments to collect themselves. All the while, they were easy targets for archers.

On the other three sides, despite all our preparation and how demoralised they looked, headed by their elite, the Dothraki hit our frontlines like a battering ram. The caltrops had slowed them down, the ditches and stakes likewise. They took heavy casualties but treated them as minor nuisances and met trained pikemen head-on like a bunch of fools. Most of these men were of the Fourth Legion, commanded by Grazgan Khaza, though the men simply called him Commander Ironsides which was a very fitting name considering this setup. A former commander of New Ghis and an expert of the phalanx school of warfare, he was the most qualified person for the job. The sellswords met the cavalry with lines of pikes pointed forward, angled towards the horses chests.

The results were self-explanatory, but one had to respect their courage. They kept charging into the meat grinder without flinching. The Dothraki were nowhere as disciplined as the Golden Company, but damn they were stubborn. I put aside the reluctant admiration I felt for those poor sods. They were the enemy and I shouldn't admire an enemy in the midst of battle. Despite all their effort, the horsemen couldn't breakthrough. They halted as soon as they reached the line and their mobility, mass and numbers turned against them. Those behind pushed forward and any Dothraki that'd been halted were forced into the waiting spears, creating a wall of corpses to climb over. The horde was so compact, so tightly packed together that the dead didn't even have a place to fall so I couldn't tell if they were dead or not. I wouldn't be surprised if a few of them were crushed to death.

As impressive in the devastatingly brutal way it was, I once more turned to the river where I should solely be looking. Due to the natural defences, the line required less men who'd been focused elsewhere, but still took a heavy beating then and there. Some of the men were even being pushed back.

"Now it is time. They shall pass no further."

Dalabhar nodded, took out his goldenheart bow and ignited the tip on the brazier. The fires licked the oiled rags, burning bright and fierce. He lifted it up and let loose. The arrow shot into the air, visible even against the bright blue sky.

A signal.

A heartbeat later, one of the artillery crews shot a pot of wildfire into the now-red-river. The very river we had spilled our reserves of wildfire just before the Dothraki appeared.

I read about the Battle of the Blackwater in the books and watched the scene from the series. It had been impressive to look at but compared to the explosion before me – the deafening raw and the blinding green light, the scorching heat and the howls in the aftermath – neither was worthy of notice. This would be the tipping point. Fires licked the water as bodies of horses and men floated or sank, blackened and smoking. The Dothraki that remained on the other side of the river refused to proceed further, their horses neighing as they recoiled or tried to escape the flames in blind panic.

"So this was why you kept her around?" Duck asked with both fear and disgust in his voice, covering his eyes from the bright green flames raging _beneath_ the water. He spoke about Lyra with more respect and much more fear than he usually did.

"What you did was little more than overkill," Lyra critiqued. "You didn't need that much."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"It did," she agreed. "But—"

"But it worked. Leave it at that." It was something that took near all our wildfire to accomplish and the results were devastating. Just the sight of the flaming river made many Dothraki rout.

This was only the first part of the battle, however. Some of the reserve under the command of Tristan Rivers, the bastard of Darry, marched forward to reinforce the line at the river. On the banks, all the corpses made it hard to tell how many Dothraki were still alive. A few hundred? A few thousand? Somewhere in-between? The Dothraki weren't even trying to fight in a proper formation which just made the whole thing messy as they kicked their mounts and hacked their way through the stakes. One Dothraki was rallying his riders, shouting obscenities I could hear but didn't last long when Balaq's archers unleashed a barrage at him and his protectors. The fires had held back reinforcements but many Dothraki had made it across the river and soon enough, the archers would run out of ammo.

"Lyra, wait here. Dalabhar, Duck, we're going to clear the riverbank. We're to join Ser Tristan."

"At your command," he gravelled at me.

"You don't seem scared," Lyra turned to him.

"Fear is the sign of a degenerate mind," the Summer Islander simply replied.

Taking charge of my century, with Damon loudly congratulating me to the cheers of the men, we followed the thousand in good order as they marched at a steady pace. I joined with Ser Rivers at the front, his mane of dark-red hair exposed beneath an open-helm and arms snaked with multiple golden bands of gold showing him as a veteran of the Company.

" _MEN OF THE GOLDEN COMPANY!_ " he roared at the top of his lungs. " _BENEATH THE GOLD!_ "

" _THE BITTERSTEEL!"_ I added my voice to the chorus of men behind me.

" _GUT THOSE DOTHRAKI DOGS!_ "

Our march hastened and the line of men holding the line opened up. Surefooted in the mud, we smashed into the Dothraki. Growling, I rammed straight into one still mounted. Polehammer in hand, I smashed the axehead right into his arm. The copper-skinned rider screamed in pain and toppled from his horse only to be stabbed by the spearman he'd been duelling.

I heard a scream and turned around to a young boy charging me, all bowlegged from being afoot, curved arakh high above his head. He couldn't be no older than, what? Fourteen, fifteen, or young enough to make no difference. I didn't care. He was no more than an amateur playing at war. I parried with my pole, threw my weight to the side and smashed him in the face with a steel fist, breaking his nose and spraying blood everywhere. Following up, my hammer broke through his skull, splitting his face in two, sending chunks of brain and bone everywhere.

I'd expected a fight but with the men behind me, our momentum forced the Dothraki into the fiery river. Before this, I'd been fighting people who knew what they were doing, who could stand on their own and were protected by mail and boiled leather and shields. I had never fought against people so outclassed, warriors who threw themselves into battle recklessly but unable to actually stand a chance when not on horseback. The experience was more enlightening than anything. It was both shocking easy and completely horrifying for just how easy it was. _Like felling wheat_. An old man tried to swipe his blade at me, but the sword didn't even dent my mail. Painful yes, but wouldn't even produce a bruise at the end of the day. I pulled out a knife and pushed it through his ribs, stepped back and brought my hammer down on his head. Crimson rained down on me as I stepped over his corpse to the next target.

It reminded me of those movies where the heroes scythe their way through an army of mooks and, for me, it certainly seemed like it. Everywhere I looked, the Dothraki were being cut down. The lot of them almost in shock that their bladed weaponry wasn't cutting through solid plate and good mail. This was not a fight so much as a massacre. Where looking from afar brought a sense of satisfaction, I could only see the horror standing in the midst of it. The true horror was, however, was that I didn't feel guilty in the slightest. I was purely apathetic as I cut them down with the khalasar unable to stop us. This wasn't a fight, this was butchers work and I felt bile rise in my throat not from killing them, but how easy it was. If there were anyone else, I was sure I'd fell guilty and be collecting prisoners instead of ensuring their deaths, but they were Dothraki, a culture based around rape and slavery and destruction. _A swarm of locusts to destroy a continent and leading them is the man who threatened that to Westeros_.

Pushing ever further, we forced what remained of the Dothraki to balance on the riverbank. The wicked green flames burnt bright and looked ready to engulf them. _What have I unleashed with the wildfire?_ Despite the terror and the horror, it was oddly beautiful with the colours of the flames and black smoke. Destruction could be very beautiful if one detached themselves from it.

Pulling myself from the surreal trance, I noted a well-built Dothraki cut down a sellsword. He was covered in scars and bells rang in his long, oiled braid. His arakh, long and curved and made for deliver deep slicing cuts, was slick with blood. He turned to me, growling what could only be a curse in his native tongue. At some point, our formation broke apart as we spread out. With Duck and Dalabhar dealing with others, I knew I would need to take him on my own.

Like I'd done countless times today, I got into a stance, though I wagered this fight would be harder for whatever reason. _Regardless, he's a half-naked foe, with a weapon to kill other half-naked foes_. I was clad in plate and mail and he'd a painted shirt. He was older than me, standing more than a head taller and heavier with muscle and fat. Should it come to strength, he had the advantage, but I'd been taught to fight people who were stronger and larger. He shouted at me in his savage tongue, but I only stared into the nakedness of his eyes.

"Come," I told him.

I doubted he understood my words, but he followed the command regardless.

My lessons with Syrio had taught me many a things about the dance that was the storm of swords. _Has there ever been such a dangerous dance?_ The Dothraki fighter was fast, as fast as any man could possibly be. In those hands of his, the arakh was little more than a blur that attacked me from three directions at once. Unrestricted by plate, he was shockingly light on his feet and circled around me. But as fierce as the attack, there was nothing precise about it.

With measured breath, I blocked the blows, the polearm darting forward and turning them aside as I stepped back, ensuring I used the longer reach of my poleaxe to my advantage. Deciding retreating wouldn't cut it, I pressed forward. The Dothraki cursed and turned a high cut into the low one. I moved to block but it was a feint. Slipping past my weapon, his blade came at my throat, but the blow scraped harmlessly off my bevor. I grinned and smashed him in the face with a plated fist.

His head was thrown back, spraying blood and teeth everywhere. Not wasting a moment, my axe found the man's arm, but the Dothraki moved out the way soon enough for it to only be a flesh wound, parting the flesh and biting mildly into the muscle underneath.

The Dothraki cursed loud and hard, circling and swinging as hard as he could. It was clear he had no idea on how to fight a man in armour, I could see it in those dark pits he called eyes: the doubt, confusion, what could even be fear. He lashed against me again and again, screaming as if sound could kill me where steel could not. The arakh slashed low, high and low again. Each failed attempt on my life only made him wilder.

I parried further cuts to my face and legs and arms, armour stopping what I couldn't block. The spike at the tip of my polearm pieced his thigh, going in deep. The Dothraki roared in pain, blood gashing down his leg when I pulled out. But where I thought he would go down, his leg unable to support his weight, it only seemed to make him fiercer. Before I could withdraw, he seized the polearm and wrestled it from my grasp. I danced back as he lunged forward once more, swinging his arakh in a bloody arc. He came in high, ready to strike at my head. Grabbing my dirk, I sprung forward. He missed my helm, but I was on him. A quick thrust to the heart and the man staggered. Pulling out my sword, I finished him. A slash across the abdomen and his entrails slid out like fat, slimy worms.

Thus ended our duel.

Turning around, I saw Duck grinning at me, with a sword resting on his shoulder and next to him was Dalabhar, looking stoic as always. "Killed your fist ko, it seems," Rolly told me with nothing short of naked pride.

"A ko?"

"A ko," the Summer Islander repeated. "The more bells, the more accomplished and he had more bells than anyone here." He walked over, and with the Dothraki still alive and struggling, adjutant stomped on his face, putting an end to him.

"Cold," I muttered.

"Such a feat cannot be understated," the admin continued unabated.

"Aye, not the boy I threw against the deck of the Shy Maid," Rolly said with nostalgia. "Did you make a witty comment when you slashed him?"

I just blinked dumbly at him. "I was in the middle of a fight, for my life. I wasn't in the right state of mind to pull out a one-liner."

"A shame."

I rolled my eyes and turned to the battle which was still raging. We had pushed the Dothraki back and now the Golden Company was on the offensive throughout the entire front, opening the lines and letting the reserve cut through the horselords and encircle them. The Dothraki, being stubborn as they were, threw themselves forward. There was no formation to the Dothraki, but then again, there wouldn't be. They were meant to run over infantry who in turn were meant to panic and flee and be ridden down after being weakened by arrows. Instead we held our ground and the Dothraki soon found themselves facing the best infantry in Essos and bled badly for it.

"No doubt those siege engines have caused massive casualties by now," Dalabhar muttered. "The captain-general should really congratulate him."

"And myself by extension," I grunted. "We can't stand around chattering; we've still got a battle to fight. Those Dothraki aren't going to kill themselves, you know."

"Trust me, they're doing their best."

We joined once more in the slaughter. The men by the river swept around the flanks, shattered the Dothraki host and sending many to rout. That sadly didn't end the battle, however. They rallied and charged against our lines seven times, and three times sought to weaken us with storms of arrows. We held our ground, refusing to be goaded from our hollow square. Between every attack, we extracted our exhausted men from the front and switched them with the reserves. All the while, the river continued to burn. After their seventh attempt to break our lines, it was clear we won. The battle finally concluded when the remaining Dothraki proceeded forward only for each man to cut off his braid and throw it down at our feet.

I removed my helm and watched them gallop away. _Foolish but brave_ , I thought. _Foolish but brave_. When it was all over, I found Blackheart and his officers in the command tent.

Toyne was sipping choice wine from a jewelled cup and his squire undid the fastenings of his armour. Homeless Harry turned to me, dressed in gilded mail and a breastplate inlaid with precious jewels. "You're alive, Griffin," the paymaster said to me. "It seems you managed to not get yourself killed."

"I'm touched by your faith in my abilities," I replied drily. "Are you sure you want to gush this much before the other officers? People may talk."

"They may very well say you're Daemon the Black Dragon come again," the captain-general told me with that smile that was so Blackheart. "This is a great day. Your men fought well, and this was a most decisive victory against Khal Drogo."

 _A victory that has stopped my chance to get dragons_ , I thought bitterly. "If you keep this praise coming, I may faint."

"Like a girl during a tourney?" Haldon asked me with a wicked smirk.

"My seduction skills are second to none," Myles agreed, where some of his officers chuckled. Then the general's face went serious, as did the rest of the men. "Still, I must congratulate you and offer my apologises for doubting this wildfire of yours. Burning the river was a cunning idea. It put the pressure off that flank and allowed me to send men where they were needed. I have much to thank you for."

"Not to mention the greatest prize of all," Maar said, fiddling with one of his drooping earrings.

"And what is that?" I asked.

Connington grinned. Rarely did I see him grin or smile, but this seemed to be one of those times. "Many ko's have been killed, I heard you yourself had killed Ko Jhaqo and then there is the khal himself."

"Dead?"

"No. Captured. Khal Drogo is utterly at our mercy."

 _The king of the Dothraki. A Khal in Chains_. I could have laughed, if it didn't hurt so much.

* * *

A/N: It seems even the vaulted Dothraki fall before the noob square. I had planned this battle since the beginning of this fic for I always wanted to write a battle between the Golden Company and Dothraki. FYI, I was never going to have a marriage between Dany and Khal Drogo for this story, because, frankly, it's an awful plan both morally and strategically. Also, I get to screw the master plan Aegon's been flaunting for a few chapters, which is always funny. The next chapter will return to Pentos and will be where he meets Daenerys.

This is the longest chapter I've written so far with more than eleven thousand words, so expect a few grammar mistakes. If there are, I very much apologise. Please tell me what you think and as always, I would like to thank those who've commented, favourited and followed.

Comments:

VladImpaler: Thanks for the review! Pawns have minds of their own and Illyrio's not the only player in town. I am looking forward to writing Daenerys and have her slowly come out of the shell she had in the books.

Dzerx: Aegon has Targ blood so he should have a decent chance to ride one. But when it comes to hatching, he can try but may not succeed. I do think Daenerys was instrumental in the hatching. Dragons would be a useful tool to have, both in actual combat and just building up supporters among the lords - what lord wants to be burnt alive?

coldblue2015: Thanks for the review. Canon is now out the window so Aegon has no choice but to stand on his own. Khal Drogo shouldn't last that long so he won't do much in the coming story. Aegon was protected, and wouldn't have achieved near as much without the allies surrounding him. With that training, he's at least prepared himself and things are going to get worse. Lyra is one of my favourite character to write. She's got her own objectives, morality, is a fairly dark character but one who enjoys trolling people. I'm really looking forward to writing Daenerys. She's still a little girl and shy from hiding in Viserys shadow so it'll be interesting to see how she grows differently from the canon. Dragon eggs will exist so expect dragons. With training, Daenerys lacked the ability and knowledge to do so. Here she might have an easier time but expect no smooth sailing.

NeedingOfLifeGoalDude: Thank you so much for the review. I would say the Golden Company killed more than eight thousand, who formed only part of the Khal Drogo's army. For the Neo-Dothraki, they'll only be a small portion in the Golden Company but a specialised one. It also follows their habit of taking skills from all over and improve upon them as the situation permits. One of the reasons I did them was because I didn't like the idea the Dothraki all believe the same thing so there was bound to be some more adaptable. I dislike treating groups like they're all the same. Lyra – and many of the surgeons – will certainly treat it like Christmas. In real life, quite a few doctors followed armies to improve their craft as war provided an abundance of opportunities. The plan for Aegon was always to wait for the War of the Five Kings to play out as waiting for the opposition to waste themselves against each other would be the pragmatic thing to do, all the while building up his strength.

osterreicher97: Plans in asoiaf don't last all that long, it's a running theme. I do think the "Fire and Blood" are instructions, but I doubt that'll be enough on its own. I think it needs more things otherwise Targaryens would have hatched them after they died out. I do believe the dragon gene theory where dragons can only hatch to females with the right genetics – which would include Daenerys. We'll have to see how it's goes.

kuriboh1233: Yep, quality verses quantity. Drogo should have kingsblood for he is a khal that leads a horde of a hundred thousand.

kuranodesu: I wouldn't say it's dishonourable as they were fighting for survival. It's a tactic and one that worked.


	16. Chapter 15: The Heads of the Dragon

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 15: The Heads of the Dragon**

* * *

Outside the canvas walls, the men were celebrating.

The Battle of the Burning River had been a great victory. Khal Drogo, reputed to be undefeated and the most formidable khal in living memory, was now in chains. The men who formed the Golden Company, from the captain-general to the lowliest camp follower had congratulated me for the wildfire scheme, some going so far as to stop me as I walked past for a slap on the back or to offer a swig of wine. With the defeat of their leader and loss of many of his kos, the Dothraki started fighting amongst themselves for the position of khal and whatever treasures they could get their hands on. That only blinded them to us when we swept upon their camp with armoured elephants.

The fighting had been fierce and the aftermath even worse. Drunk from our victory against the Dothraki in the field, and even more once we reached the heart of the khalasar, the men let loose their frustrations and anger. When I dismounted from my mare, the encampment was afire with black plumes of oily smoke roiling and tumbling from accident and purpose. The ground was a carpet of the dead and dying while the women and children of Khal Drogo's khalasar walked with sullen pride for even in defeat the Dothraki were proud, even as they were herded by mercenaries who were generous in their beatings. At one point, I saw a Dothraki girl not much younger than myself be raped by a Westerosi knight from behind like a dog. Around him, some sergeants were laughing, drunk with wine and blood. I could still remember the heartrending sound, the long sobbing wail that went on and on afterwards. I had turned to the knight and ordered him to stop. The man didn't take it kindly and told me, "The bitch deserves it. These creatures are barbaric savages. Monsters. This is an eye for an eye this is." The men echoed his words and the knight never stopped pounding into her. I wrenched him off with a fist, sending the man to the ground. The Westerosi cursed and pulled out a knife but Duck knocked him out with the pommel of his sword. I only watched as the girl scampered away. I might have ended that one, but I'd been too late and no doubt there were others like her throughout the camp who didn't have someone to stop it.

In the end, we looted the Dothraki's prized processions. Commander Kojo rewarded himself with a magnificent arakh chased in gold, Black Balaq took a double-curved dragonborn bow that could shoot further than his one made of goldenheart. There was silk and precious gems, well-bred horses and spices from the east. Then there were all the slaves. Khal Drogo didn't just bring warriors, oh no. As khalasars were cities on the move, they included women, children and thousands upon thousands of slaves to be bought and sold. Many of the slaves were absorbed into the Company for plenty were captured warriors and artisans. Others, however, would be worthless for anything other than the short term of selling them into slavery. Just the idea caused arguments among the officers. Some thought they should be sold, others believed they should be released. I stood with the latter and was furious to realise many Westerosi were not averse to selling slaves provided the coin lined their own pockets. Despite my urging, the greater number were pro-enslavement and as the Golden Company was semi-democratic, the captain-general agreed with the majority to send them to Magister Illyrio who the slaves were already promised to.

I was most furious and that was one of the reasons I hadn't joined in with the celebrations.

Another reason was that I was having trouble making peace with Khal Drogo riding south. He was meant to go to Pentos and marry Daenerys, then unwilling sacrifice himself to hatch me some dragons. The khal was still alive, though horribly burned after being caught in a blast of wildfire and needed his arm amputated from one of many wounds he received. Lyra and Haldon had worked hard to keep him alive so he could be interrogated and paraded. They'd succeeded and despite being knocked out on milk of the poppy, he was breathing and stable. From the little we got from his fazed state, it seemed Gorys was correct. Both Braavos and Volantis had put aside their mutual hatred for nothing unites two bickering enemies like a new up-and-coming power. From the iron square coins of Braavos and the skull-and-crown honours of Volantis, it was clear they had divided the cost to hire Khal Drogo in the hopes of sapping our strength. That plan had not only failed, but Blackheart decided to write a letter to both and thank them for the coin which he promised to put to good use. As a reward for their service, the chests had been split among the men, providing a much-needed morale boast. For Drogo himself, it was a horrible fate to be sure, but seeing as he'd rape Dany until she thought about taking her own life and threatened to enslave the smallfolk of Westeros, I wasn't feeling particular sympathetic nor was I when he was chained up to be taunted by sellswords who pelted him with rotten food, mud and shit.

"I don't understand why you're so disheartened," Blackheart said as he sharpened his dirk on a whetstone. "This victory was won in large part thanks to you. A decisive victory where we devastated the Dothraki horde. Killed more than half their force and barely lost a thousand of our own." He stared; pale-green eyes unknowing. "You done good, lad. This is a well-deserved victory. You should be smiling, with wine in your belly and perhaps a girl or two in your bed. Those two Dothraki princesses are comely enough."

Irri and Jhiqui he was referring to. The daughters of rival khals Drogo had killed. Comely and knowing the common tongue, the two who would have been Dany's handmaidens had been pushed into my tent by a drunken Franklyn Flowers. I didn't bed them, though I did take them into my service so they'd be except from being sold to my father who would no doubt sell them to the brothels.

"I could be," I allowed. _I don't desire to stick my prick in an unwilling woman, captain-general._ "But we've duties to do and I desire to finish those before anything else, while we still have the luxury."

"Just so. But you should enjoy yourself. You're only a lad who's got the future to do his duties. You should enjoy yourself. Truly, I never expected such a decisive battle against the khal. He was one of the best tactical minds the Dothraki have to offer. It was like the Warrior himself was looking upon us that day."

The worst part was that it really was true. Khal Drogo was one of the greatest tactical minds the Dothraki had ever known. It just happened the bar was set so low it was practically embedded into the ground. I should be happy for crushing a numerically imposing enemy, but I couldn't. I didn't know why I was so annoyed. Maybe it was because the plan I had mapped out for the last two years had just evaporated before me, or because I just liked the idea of riding atop a fire-breathing dragon. That would have been sweet.

 _Either this or lose the army_ , I reminded myself.

"It was impressive," Dalabhar said, not looking from the messages he was writing to the governments of our client states. "Khal Drogo was unbeatable on the field before we fought against him. Such infamy would cause most armies to surrender before they even meet in battle. I'll grant you, Dothraki lack the military doctrines to fight against combined arms that had the advantage of tactics, technology, unit quality and preparation."

"You really know how to downplay our victory," Duck commented wryly. He stood by the entrance in a green surcoat with a badge of a duck sewn onto his breast. "You could just say they threw themselves against the finest army in both Essos and Westeros."

Blackheart lifted his drink to that, barking out a laugh. "And bled badly for that. With their leader captured and injured, they flee like a beaten dog who got the shoe. They won't be a burden to us. It'll be a warning to every other ambitious khal and the cities who hire them."

"They were meant to aid us, you know," I said, chewing the inside of my cheek. "My father had plans in place."

Myles turned to me. "These very Dothraki?"

I replied with a nod. While Myles knew the Dothraki would have been used, he didn't know which ones. Illyrio loved keeping people in the dark. "Khal Drogo was meant to marry Daenerys Targaryen."

"Giving Viserys an army through his good-brother. Then I'm guessing the Triachy gives them ships and they sail to Westeros. Damaging the Seven Kingdoms just enough for us to come in and take him down."

That was the plan when I was still seen as Targaryen rather than Blackfyre. Kill my evil usurper of an uncle and the warlord of his army for dare thinking about taking my throne. A nice little fairy-tale the smallfolk would have to pay for. Or that was the plan when I was still paraded as perfect Prince Aegon Targaryen. I didn't know how Illyrio planned to twist it with me being the black dragon. _Maybe make the Targaryens look as bad as possible before the Blackfyre liberator strides in._ What would happen to Daenerys then? _Would I marry her or Lady Margaery? Would Dany be murdered or be sent to the silent sisters?_

"Like I said before, it was a foolish idea," Blackheart declared. "The Dothraki don't sail. They never have. They refuse to go near water their horses don't drink. You can always trust magisters to know nothing about the ways of war."

"I know," I agreed, my voice growing stronger. "My father thought he was a master strategist for coming up with it. Fool. Us fighting them proved how useless the Dothraki would be against a proper foe. Even if Westeros stood divided, it'll only delay their defeat and whoever wins against the khal would have greater support. That's if it doesn't just unite the warring factions against a common enemy. The Starks and Lannisters may hate each other but they'll hate the Dothraki more."

"Starks and Lannisters?" Ser Myles asked, confused. "Why would they fight? The civil war will be between Lord Stannis and Renly against the Lannisters. They hate each other, Illyrio tells me. They're fighting in the royal court for influence and, at some point, the cauldron will be fit to burst. The Starks have nothing to do with it."

"I'm mistaken then," I lied. _I said too much_.

"What about the girl?" Rolly thankfully asked. "After she is married off?"

I shrugged. "Bred like an animal. Should she survive . . . I don't know. Maybe a marriage between myself and her. Unite the houses, unite the claims or . . . you know, disposed of and leaving me a girl from a powerful house. I doubt my father's pride would let me marry someone who's not a maiden."

"You are the true dragon," Myles said behind the rim of his cup. "Few nobles would respect a queen who's been soiled by a barbarian. Especially if she's had a child by him. They'll mock you for having a Dothraki's leavings."

Oh yes, I almost forgot how backwards the Westerosi were when it came to virginity, honour and many other things as well. I sighed, rubbing my eyes. "So, what now then, ser?"

"If what your saying is true, we need to restrategise. Your father may help finance our operations, but he doesn't lead us. We should come up with our own plans. Let the people who fight plan this war."

"He's got Varys," I pointed out. "We need the Spider in King's Landing. We need the realm divided. Even if we've lost less than a thousand men, many have been injured and we've lost all our wildfire and ammunition for the archers."

"The Spider will be important," Myles conceded. "Your father as well, but I wouldn't trust him to order us from now on. Not without full knowledge of things. I want no other surprises."

"What about this union, captain-general . . . the same one the Moderates and Ser Connington suggested?" wondered Ser Duck. "With the khal in our procession, he's useless to the plan."

"The uniting the bloodlines plot?"

Rolly nodded.

Myles clicked his tongue. "More than a few have suggested such a marriage. Blackfyre and Targaryen, two branches of the same tree. Black or red, a dragon is still a dragon. There are problems with such a union, however. Should the Targaryens hold any power, I would be more supportive of the idea. But the fact that they're penniless and need to beg support from archons and merchant princes makes me cautious. They have no support nor received any from sympathetic houses in Westeros. It makes me fear the lack of support they'll receive should we commit ourselves. Marrying a Westerosi house will give us men, coin and supplies."

 _And without dragons, it makes it all the more unlikely_. Maybe I should end my plans with the Targs and conquer Westeros the traditional way. There were a few possible candidates for queen as well. _Maybe a Martell?_ Queen Arianne Nymeros Blackfyre had a ring to it and I really liked her. It helped that I was very sympathetic to the Dornish cause.

"You could satisfy the Moderates and Reds by marrying her," Dalabhar commented. "Use her family name until you have no more need, then remove the girl and get yourself a wife from a more powerful family. Wise to do so after the conquest."

Duck looked aghast. "Connington desires a Targaryen on the throne. He is a loyalist and besides, killing a child?"

The Summer Islander simply shrugged. "If the child's got no usefulness to the kingdom, she needs to be replaced with someone who has. Morality has no place in the hall of kings."

 _Jon's a Rhaegar loyalist, not a Targaryen loyalist_. Though he may have turned into one to shield himself from what happened. If he can't get Rhaegar's son, he may get Rhaegar's brother or sister on the throne instead. _Either that or revenge. He would surely want to kill Robert and this is his chance to do so_. "All well and good," I said, bitterly, "Though I do wonder what allies Daenerys could possibly give us should such a marriage indeed happen. The houses of Westeros are fickle but many are craven and would refuse to step out of line with their overlords. Oh, we could throw some titles and coin at a few and turn them to us but they'll be the exception and not the norm. Darry and Mooton come to mind for those likely to support the red dragons."

"Dorne?" Rolly asked.

"The Dornish . . . they might think about it should we throw gifts of gold and titles at them. But they have no love for Targaryens who are not of Princess Elia's blood and even less love for Blackfyres. Viserys could be used to tie a marriage to the Dornish Princess Arianne . . . but Dorne won't be enough. Prince Doran . . . he's cautious. A little too much for my taste and that's saying something."

"Anyone else?"

"Stark, Tully and Arryn won't even think of siding with us. Baratheon and Lannister sit the Iron Throne so we're against them. I wouldn't trust the Ironborn as far as I can throw them but they might want vengeance and could be useful tools. Tyrells? They want a daughter to plant some seeds, preferably on the throne. Lord Mace is ambitious to a fault so I would be cautious when dealing with him." I grunted and slipped down in my chair, a scowl marring my face. _It would be so much easier if I was Elia's son_.

"What now, commander?" Dalabhar asked as he put his quill down and flexed his hands that were surprising massive for how graceful his handwriting was. "We need to move before disease erupts in our camp. All the corpses won't bode well and soon we may face outbreaks among our ranks. We also need to recover to full strength. While we haven't taken much in the way of casualties, we've lost a great number of supplies. Stocking should be a priority."

Blackheart Toyne nodded. "We march to Myr as soon as possible. We'll even take Drogo with us." He grinned darkly. "Show the Free Cities what happens when they go against the Golden Company. Should be a good warning to all those that want to remove their shackles."

"Good idea," I stated.

"And you, Aegon, will return to Pentos."

That caught me by surprise. "Me?"

"Yes you. Is there any other Aegon in this tent? Regardless of what's happened, the Targaryens would be useful to have in our procession, even if it's just to keep them from getting their hands on their own army. Viserys, I'm not sure, but the girl will surely have some worth. You'll go and we'll plan our next course of action against Westeros. I need to personally talk to Magister Illyrio as well. It would be shameful should our efforts be for nought."

"You met with them, didn't you?" the Summer Islander asked, leaning forward. "You refused them."

"They had nothing to give," Myles explained. "The boy demanded we bend the knee to serve him like we were his lordly bannermen." Myles spat on the carpet. "Have you ever been led by a boy? I didn't think so. They fail to make good kings, let alone commanders." He glanced to me. "No offence."

"None taken." I pinched the bridge of my nose, letting out a grunt. I could conquer Westeros without dragons, I was sure, but it would be much harder. It wasn't only that they could fly and breathe fire, but they were symbolic and could be used to rally supporters and change the minds of those undecided. Sighing, I asked, "When do we set off?"

 **...**

"Returning to Pentos, are we?" Lyra asked, looking happier than I'd seen her in a while.

I replied with a nod, laying the saddle on the back of the black horse named Shadowmare the Third. "Illyrio Mopatis has hosted some important guests I mean to visit. You know, after ruining his plan."

"A stupid plan," she said, looking at her fingernails and clipping the corners with her teeth. "I can't believe you went along with it. You're a little too cunning for such a foolish idea."

"It was a moronic idea," I grunted, rolling my head back. "Dothraki horde in Westeros? All they would do is pillage the countryside until they get withered away and crushed. That's if they're wise enough to not throw themselves at the stone walls of a castle. You know what happened when they fought against men in armour?"

"I saw first-hand. I was standing right next to you for the lesser part of the battle and afterwards I treated the injured, including Khal Drogo." Lyra chuckled, a dangerous glint flaring in her dark eyes. "A khal is the equivalent of a king. They say there is power in kingsblood. Once he gets well enough, I mean to experiment to see if it's true."

I ran a hand through my wavy blue hair. It grew too fast and draped before my eyes. Not only do Targaryens not suffer from looking like Charles II of Spain, but their hair grew inhumanly fast. Lyra enjoyed mocking me for it. Sighing, I finished with, "Use leeches. Just don't waste it."

"Nor do I plan to. You claim to need Drogo and I know Blackheart desires to parade him through the Free Cities to show his superiority. I won't kill him. Kings are not all that common."

 _You'll be mistaken when we land in Westeros. We won't be able to throw a pebble without hitting royalty_. "Have you learned much with what I've given you? I've seen you . . . performing on many corpses and tending to the men." What she did reminded me of all those doctors who trailed after armies and swarmed the aftermath of battlefields to get their hands on injured and dead to cut up and explore. Even Haldon indulged himself a little. The two had grown closer thanks to their recent activities.

"I learned much," she grinned. "Just need to write it down, though I have to see if your theories have any weight to them. You don't offer much proof, Young Griff."

 _The germ theory has no proof?_ I rolled by eyes. She was a firm believer of the miasma theory and I tried to tell her bad smells were a side-effect and not the cause. But like many back in the day, Lyra was too stubborn by half. "What about magic? Learn any more?"

"Little since taking the field, I'm afraid. We already know magic is a fiddly thing and a sword without a hilt. But something is needed to bring it forth. Blood and souls are the most common and can be used to anchor magic to someone or something. Some locations provide natural anchors for such a power, such as the Rhoyne or Asshai. Magic is stronger in those locations for some queer reason."

"What about individuals? You said there is power in kingsblood. You know why?"

"I don't. But I've found the more powerful the individual or how influential they are, the more power they carry inside them. It makes me think it does have something to do with belief. The idea of kingship itself is arbitrary. Anyone can be king; even a humble butcher if they declare themselves as such. I need further research on the matter. It should provide some interesting possibilities."

"Power resides were people think it resides," I quoted Varys. "Perhaps that is why." It would make sense. Khal Drogo was burn't in the pyre and helped hatch the dragons. He'd been a khal who commanded a horde made up of a hundred-thousand Dothraki and was feared throughout the world. We now had him in custody. _Is he enough to hatch dragons?_

I knew then what I needed to do.

"You may have a point. Magic has different rules and many of which are unknown to us. The gods gave humans the power of magic but said power always comes with a price. They want things for nothing of value is ever given freely. Blood magic is the most powerful expression of that but is most frowned upon."

"My expertise isn't magic so that's why I delegated everything related to you. Regardless, we are returning to the manse so you can continue your studies there, and please don't provide too much information. I still desire to sleep easy."

"Prefer that to field experiments," Lyra grinned. "I haven't used that equipment you bought me since leaving. I will relax first. Oh, and thank you for sending me almost to my death."

"I aim to please. When Blackheart is done with him, Khal Drogo is coming to us. I won't let your most prized test subject have a chance to flee. He also owns property in Pentos that I want."

"Thief as well as murderer," Lyra clicked her tongue.

"I want his money to help finance further ambitions. His war chests helped but his manse and everything in it will be more than sufficient for myself . . . and Illyrio. He is to be executed at some point anyway, so it makes no matter."

"But not until I have a little fun with him." She tapped my shoulder almost with affection. "I have a fun few months planned."

Those words made me shudder. I didn't know what female Qyburn planned and I didn't want to know. There were many things worse than death. "The less I know, the better. Know where Vaquo is?"

She shrugged. "Don't know. I've been busy with the Halfmaester, but the last I saw him, Vaquo was doing last minute improvements on his field artillery."

I should have known. Since the battle, he'd been working every waking moment, shouting at the engineers beneath him and staying up late to improve his designs. I thanked her and found the Volantene in his tent, bent over a pile of awkwardly drawn designs of catapults and ballistae. Since the battle, his drawing and writing skills had declined no thanks to him having no sleep. Beside him on the floor were plates of uneaten food gone to spoil.

I frowned at both the sight and the smell. "Food is meant to be eaten, not ignored," I said. The still plump Volantene didn't look away. He could get so deep in concentration that I doubted even an earthquake would force him out of his trance. I put my hand on his shoulder, squeezed, and that seemed to wake him.

"Ugh? Oh, I was just working on how to improve the reloading speed of the repeating scorpions. As well as improving a problem of jamming which I encountered during the battle. The men complained of jamming. I've been working on that problem," the Volantene engineer said with a yawn.

"Good morning, Vaquo. How are you doing? I'm doing great myself. Thanks for asking."

The round-faced, fair-haired man turned to me, pale eyes flickering for a moment as he processed my snide remark. Then his eyes narrowed. "I would have thought that fighting would soil your mood."

 _The opposite really. I feel quite alive in the heat of battle_. "I'm being sarcastic, Vac," I rolled my eyes. Sometimes talking to him was like talking to a brick wall. It didn't help that Vaquo was bad at everything that didn't have anything to do with technology and poor people skills. Standing beside him made me look like a social butterfly by comparison.

"Is that even necessary?"

"It is one of my most pressing duties," I informed him, pulling out a stool and taking a seat. "Eng—the common tongue is my second language, the Valyrian dialect my third."

"The Valyrian dialects are multiple different languages," he informed me.

I gave a brisk gesture, pulled out a bota bag and sucked the tip. It was only water flavoured with lemon but was cool and refreshing. "Does it matter?"

"If you want to be specific."

I rolled my eyes.

"So, what is your first language?"

"That's not important," I grunted, already bored of this conversation. _At least Lyra can give as good as she gets . . ._ "I've got good news for you, Vaquo. We're returning to Pentos."

"Thank the gods. I hate it here. Flies and walking and riding, oh, and death." He pouted his thick lips, looking very much like a petulant child if it was in the body of a man in his mid-twenties. "When are we going?"

"Soon. We're going to take a ship from Myr to Pentos." My friend frowned. He didn't like ships, did Vaquo Volnyros. "After this battle . . . plans have changed." We had Khal Drogo in chains and I had aspirations to hatch the dragons still. The words 'Fire and Blood' seemed to be instructions but I believed more was needed. Either way, Illyrio would have the eggs and I did ask him to get as many as possible.

"They always change," the fair-haired man said bitterly. "The plans change every time the moon turns. At least the Westerosi stay static." His face became a sneer. "The maesters have power and that's one of the reasons their technology has been consistently at least a couple decades behind Essos. Since we worked together, that gap has only increased."

 _Thanks to me, you mean_. I didn't say that though. I wouldn't be able to achieve near as much without Haldon and Vaquo. I knew how it worked and the concept, but not how to make it. "Unless we conquer the Seven Kingdoms and destroy the maesters' stranglehold of Westeros and all its institutions . . ." Those words were mentioned in passing and the Volantene looked at me with questioning eyes. Before he could ask, I clapped my hands together and said, "Up and ready, soldier. It's a long ride through the Disputed Lands and a long journey by sea. I suggest you pack and eat something. You're looking rather thin nowadays."

"Joy," Vaquo sarcastically replied.

 **...**

When Illyrio's residence appeared on the horizon, I was happier than perhaps I should have been. The manse was the closest thing to an actual home I had outside of a tent. Besides things like flushing toilets, it was far nicer than my residence in the UK which had walls and a ceiling so thin they might as well be paper. This was a palace and my father was a merchant prince who loved to pamper me. It would be a lie to say I didn't enjoy it. Fortunately, I had been careful to not get overindulgent. Otherwise I'm sure I would become an equivalent or worse than Aegon the Unworthy.

 _There's still time for that. Power does reveal who we truly are._

I shuddered at the thought of becoming like him and, in the corner of my eyes, saw Dalabhar glance at me. He followed like a shadow, enough that I sometimes forgot he was behind me unless he spoke. "We're finally here. What do you think of my abode?"

He looked down at me quizzingly. "Abode?"

"Home, residence, dwelling."

"I cannot say I'm familiar with that language," he conceded. "Looks typical for standard Pentoshi architecture. Brick walls and square towers. Though I believe it should be further strengthened. Though it's a palace, defences should be a primary concern, especially for one as powerful as the magister."

I rolled my eyes. Trust Dalabhar to see a splendid palace belonging to one of the richest men in the world, with vast gardens and scenic views and only be concerned about its defensive layout. "I doubt my father cares much about that sort of thing. The high walls and Unsullied are enough for him. Should protect against intrusion and the occasional riot."

The Summer Islander huffed. "There can be further improvements. You're a Blackfyre, Westerosi will be after you."

I glanced at him with a look telling him to shut his mouth. It hadn't taken long for my adjutant to become aware of my heritage. Being a foreigner who didn't concern himself with the politics of the Seven Kings, he cared little for it. I also didn't expect him to run to King Robert for what did he have to gain besides coin? I paid him handsomely, though Dalabhar didn't seem interested in money. His tent and processions were modest nor was he the kind to waste it on prostitutes and other vices. It made me wonder where his money went. _Maybe invests in a low risk investment scheme so he can live on the profits_. Actually, that wouldn't surprise me. He was a quiet man, but dangerously smart. In fact, many of the people who surrounded me were dangerously smart . . . if somewhat limited in their scope of skills. They seemed to be the minority, which made them look even smarter considering Essos was filled with bumbling incompetents. _Nine out of every ten are idiots. It's the tenth that you must watch out for_.

Just like the first time I entered the manse, we were greeted by one of Illyrio's slave girls who led us inside and chattered away of what was going on. My retinue took their leave to their own chambers. They had a long ride and plenty to unpack.

"So . . . the Targaryens," I spoke as I walked through one of the marble courtyards lined with beautiful plants, painted statues and water features that must have cost a fortune, though one Illyrio was more than capable of affording. "May I ask where they are? My father as well."

The willowy girl turned to me, her cheeks a slight blush and had a little smile on her lips. She was beautiful but seeing as she was a household slave in Essos, that seemed a prerequisite. Despite myself, I felt a warmth in my cheeks. "Magister Illyrio is in the garden . . . the main one, master. Viserys—I mean, His Grace, King Viserys the Third of his Name, is in the city proper trying to hire sellswords though I fear few are willing to listen to His Graces words. The sister, the Princess Daenerys Targaryen, should be in the library. The princess can usually be found there."

"Thank you for that." I smiled warmly at her. It was always good to be nice to the servants even if they were truly slaves. Should Illyrio die and his entire inheritance falls to me, the first thing I planned would be freeing them from bondage and offer a salary. It wasn't unknown in Essos for people to sell themselves or their families into slavery for a roof over their heads and regular meals so I doubted they would refuse the offer.

Smiling once more at her, I bowed my head respectfully and headed to the garden. I was feeling nervous about meeting them, especially Daenerys for some odd reason. I felt my stomach knot up at the thought. Would she be her book or show counterpart? Seeing as Jon Connington and others existed, I expected the former. I had always wondered what a meeting between Young Griff and Daenerys would be like. _Hopefully this meeting would turn out better than what's predicted for the books. Where my eyes melt her rather than those dragons of hers melting me_. At least she didn't have dragons this time around . . . yet.

Regardless of what happened with the Targaryens, I was unsure how to bring this up to Magister Illyrio. Would I just walk over to my father, surprise him with my presence than proclaim I screwed up his plan? Wouldn't be the first time I did that. Had he already received the message of the defeat and capture of Khal Drogo? For all the effort he's put into that, I doubted a few words could pacify him, even if they came from my mouth.

Father was basking in the sun, reclining in a massive couch with silken cushions stuffed with goose down. The chair groaned beneath his weight as he gobbled pasty treats from a gilded platter. His face was puffy, and jewels danced as he moved his hands: emerald, onyx and opal, tiger's eye and tourmaline, rubies and amethysts and sapphire, jade, diamond and pearl. A household could live a lifetime on just one of the rings on his thumbs. _Yes, he can afford himself more than three dragon eggs_. Just the wealth he displayed on his person further cemented my beliefs in constructing an Eastern Trading Company for Westeros. There was so much more wealth in trading precious spices than harvesting staple crops. Entire empires economies had been made just being positioned on the silk road.

Illyrio turned to me, his pig eyes dark. "Come and take a seat. We have something we need to talk about."

 _No hello or how have you been?_ The magister didn't sound happy, so he most likely received the news. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I awkwardly took a seat opposite him on a padded bench. "Father, I—"

"You listen to me. I heard what happened. I heard you and the Golden Company fought Khal Drogo. Is this true?" His words were not a question, but a statement and not a happy one at that.

 _I'm glad you care about my well-being, dearest father of mine, seeing as you've always planned on me being the puppet to your ambitions even before I was a sperm._ "We beat him," I stated. _A most one-sided engagement because one side was using tactics and the other wasn't_. "And in my defence . . . he attacked us. We were merely defending ourselves."

The Cheesemonger's cheeks went ruddy crimson and his words came out as a growl like he was trying to suppress his rage but failing miserably. This wasn't a side of Illyrio I had seen before. It was surreal, but this was properly the _real_ Illyrio Mopatis. The man the slaves feared, the magister who wouldn't hesitate betraying those he supposedly cared about if it brought the tiniest advancement for himself. The man who would think of nothing of bathing entire continents in blood to prop up his own ego.

 _That is what I truly am for you, isn't it? Something for you to brag about_. He was the Aegon the Unworthy of my story. Beneath his jovial exterior of smiles and honeyed words and apparent helpfulness was an exploitative monster whose cynicism and coldness masterminded the whole plot. A scheming narcissist who was dismissive of anyone he perceived as beneath his social and intellectual standing. To him, everyone was merely property. Even his wife, Serra, the person he claimed of love was simply an object, something to warm his bed and birth a son. _I'm just an extension of yourself aren't I, father?_

"You knew what we had planned, Aegon. _You threw it all away_! Do you know how much coin and time I spent getting Khal Drogo here!"

I met his rage stoically as I could. "He came after us, being paid by rivals to our operations in Essos. You need to remember that even pawns have minds of their own and can be swayed from the stated goals. I didn't desire such an outcome, but it seems your plans with the Dothraki would have failed seeing what happened."

"What happened? Tell me, _boy_ , did you—"

"Let me finish speaking. Your plans failed. Khal Drogo attacked us for he didn't seem aware that he was meant to work alongside the Golden Company and not crush them. Or he did and just didn't care. We are not the only players in the world and others have their own desires." That made me wonder what was going to happen with the Triachy with that plan having failed. I doubted the other Essosi powers would stop at only one failure. _They'll try again and again until they crash and burn themselves_.

"You should have told me. I would have sorted it out," Illyrio growled at me, like it was my fault which, actually, was correct.

"I could have but . . ." I paused for a moment, looking of the statue of Illyrio that looked shockingly like myself besides the few minor differences. "Perhaps it was for the best."

"The best?" Illyrio was aghast.

"The best," I repeated. "We beat Khal Drogo in the open field. No doubt Blackheart informed you how we did it. If we can achieve that with our small army, what would Westeros have done? It should be known that the Dothraki would have failed in Westeros. Oh, they might have sown destruction by pillaging and disrupting the land, but they are no true threat to the lords at the end of the day. They can't storm castles nor beat a knight." _They don't even wear armour for crying out loud!_ "And thank you for being concerned about my health. I could have died."

Illyrio Mopatis forced himself to his feet, those thick arms of his shaking underneath silk crimson robes. At some point, the loosely knotted belt holding it had gone undone and I could see a huge white belly and a pair of heavy breasts that sagged like sacks of suet covered with coarse yellow hair. A most ugly sight. Made one wonder how the statue could have turned into the man before me.

"We had a plan. We discussed this. You should know the Dothraki weren't meant to win. Only to disrupt the Seven Kingdoms. Leaving them open to you."

"Plans change," I said defiantly, refusing to buckle. "They would have been useless and not worthy of the ships it would have taken to transport them across the Narrow Sea. At least our plans can change to something better."

"Something better?" Illyrio was furious, but thankfully he wasn't shouting any more. His voice had an edge to it, however.

"Something better," I repeated. "Plans change and this may be for the best . . ."

" _For the best?"_ Illyrio threw his massive arms up and those long sleeves almost smacked me in the face. "My – _our_ – plans are ruined, and you say it's for the best? Do you even hear yourself, boy? The Dothraki—"

"The Dothraki would have died, we have proven that. Oh, it might not have been one battle, you know, it might have been two or several, but they would never have succeeded in our goals. There are other ways we can take the Seven Kingdoms and they don't involve throwing a Dothraki horde at them." I paused and met Illyrio's eyes staring back at me. "Perhaps I should announce my identity."

Illyrio paled. "You . . . not yet. Not now. What foolish notion has entered your head?" He looked me up and down like I was not the same boy.

I smirked at him, seeing all that rage leave and be replaced by fear thanks to a few simple words. "I propose a Blackfyre and Targaryen alliance. A union between former enemies. My army, your coin, their claim. It might be enough to cast Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister down." _We only invade after the civil war has achieved the right amount of destruction_ , I could have added.

Illyrio's mouth was agar. "You think to ally with your family's enemies?"

"Indeed."

The Pentoshi Magister ran a hand across his sweaty face. "Might be for you were raised as one, but this is nothing short of foolishness. They're the enemy and what would they give you? They have no army, no supporters. The fact the Targaryen pretender is called the Beggar King is example enough of that. Has Myles Toyne told you of this fools plan?"

"Indeed. He has his worries but desired to talk to you about it, magister."

"Then I suggest you remain outside this discussion. You're only a boy."

"A boy?" I stood up and met his stare with my own. A fire was burning intensely inside my chest and my words came out as a growl, "Is that what you said the other times I put my voice forward? You told me I'm the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. That I have the blood of kings in my veins. Well then, father. Let me be a king. Allow me to make my own decisions and freely speak my mind. I say the Targaryens could make useful allies."

"Allies? After what their family did to yours?" Illyrio's face went even more crimson and looked fit to explode. "Do you know your histories? Your kin were killed, repeatedly, in cold blood. _Outright murdered!_ Aenys Blackfyre, murdered under guest rights. Haegon murdered after surrendering."

"Indeed. But we can't afford to be picky. Just as they can't."

"These words you speak are thoughtless. I doubt they – Viserys – would agree to it. He's prideful and an utter fool."

I wasn't interested in the Begger King. I was only interested in the girl. Through my plans were in ruins, I did hope there were some way to scavenge them. I had a mage and a man with kingsblood. Hopefully Lyra had the capabilities to hatch the eggs and then we could have dragons. "They'll agree. He wants an army and is desperate. He was so desperate he would have agreed to marry his little sister to a stranger from the Dothraki Sea, turning her into little more than a whore for the promise of a circlet of gold to be placed atop his head. No doubt I would be a preferable replacement for such an arrangement. An alliance sealed with marriage."

"The girl? A young princess with nothing to give and little more than a beggar? What more does she have to give you than others? There are many young ladies in Westeros. Maidens as pretty as summer, with lands and armies and coin to offer to the cause. You can have better. Maidens of the Reach . . . landed and powerful. She's pretty, I'll grant you, but what does this Daenerys Targaryen give you?"

"A claim."

"You have a claim."

"A weak one, father. A very weak one. The lords and ladies of Westeros will see me little more than a peasant given an army. You, no offence, are an upstart merchant in their eyes, a man who grew rich from the not-so-respected profession of selling cheese. The Westerosi lords look down upon merchants with quite the passion. My mother, oh, she had the dragon blood in her veins but was a bedslave. Such parentage would ensure the Westerosi ride against me. But . . . should I marry a princess with one of the strongest claims to the Iron Throne, well . . ." I shrugged, "I shouldn't need to tell you."

"You and Daenerys?" He laughed, rolls of fat rolling, and that anger faded surprisingly quick. "You . . . planned that from the start, didn't you? Marry the girl you believed your aunt?"

 _She isn't my aunt. She's a distant cousin_. I smirked, "Both House Targaryen and Blackfyre have married relatives. Aunts and sisters and nieces included." _Besides, nephew to aunt and uncle and niece was common enough in medieval Europe and I never grew up with Daenerys so my mind wouldn't have imprinted that we were related_.

"I have my doubts for such a marriage. While I do find humour in a Targaryen marrying a Blackfyre; starting with a Daenerys, ending with a Daenerys. But would this girl be enough? She's a shy and fearful little thing. Soft and malleable." His face hardened. "Not strong by any means. Perhaps for the best. Women have their place. But what of Viserys?"

 _Daenerys not strong? Oh, father, you miscalculate. She's quite cunning and capable when you come down to it._ More so than her idiot of a brother, anyhow. "He matters not to me. Do as you will. Through I would think it wise to retain a hold on Viserys for now. An exiled Targaryen prince would always have uses."

Illyrio nodded, still looking annoyed. "Just so. We best plan for the future. But you will not reveal yourself as a Blackfyre. Not yet. Not until I say so. Understand?" Those words weren't a question.

"Your will be done."

 **...**

As Larra said, it was in the library where I discovered the Mother of Dragons.

Daenerys Targaryen sat in a shadowed alcove, in a comfy chair of velvet and plush cushions, knees pressed to her chest while she read a small book. I could recognise it from when I decided to ransack my father's library in the quest of knowledge. A fairy-tale book of a dragon kidnapping a princess and locking her in a tower to be rescued by some knight. A standard tale. _Does she see the dragon as hero or villain?_ I wasn't surprised by her choice. The younger Daenerys was like Sansa in a lot of ways – _naïve with idealistic views of the world_ – almost like they were foils to each other.

"Princess," I greeted warmly, performing a bow just how Septa Lemore had taught me.

The Targaryen almost jumped out her seat in surprise. She turned to stare. Clearly, Daenerys hadn't noticed my presence. I put on my most charming smile and entered cautiously like how one would approach a fawn. The plush Myrish carpet on the floor was soft and muffled my footsteps.

"Hello?" Her words were like a squeak.

I tried to suppress a laugh at the sound. _So, this is Daenerys Targaryen?_ She wasn't how I expected her to look. While it would be more than a little creepy to say she was beautiful, because she was a thirteen-year-old girl, it would be wrong to say she wasn't cute. Very, very cute. Pinch her cheeks adorable. The girl before me wasn't Queen Daenerys Targaryen the First of her Name, the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains, the Scourge of Slaver's Bay and the Bearer of a Thousand Titles. No, the girl before me was Daenerys the Tiny.

I felt an ounce of regret for not helping her sooner. While I'd been scheming, I forgot about the person beneath the character. Dany was only a little girl, barely even a teen, yet forced to endure going from city to city under the care of Viserys. _I performed as needed._ I wouldn't – _couldn't_ – regret my actions, nor could I change the past. I could help her now though. I would give her the advantages I'd been blessed with: education, companions and safety. _Yes, that would be for the best_. If I still felt frustration about what happened with Khal Drogo, it had vanished.

"Hello," I replied, grinning boyishly. Her large eyes flickered. While mine were the kind that changed depending on the light, hers was a gentle violet. They were also stunningly beautiful. "May I introduce myself; my name is Griff Mopatis, son of Magister Illyrio Mopatis of the Free City of Pentos." As Illyrio recommended, I wouldn't tell her my Blackfyre origins. I smiled to put her at ease for the girl looked somewhat nervous. "May I say it's good to finally meet you after hearing so much, Princess Daenerys."

"You know me?"

 _More than you know, my dear_. Wow, that sounded creepy in my head. I was sure Daenerys would think the same if she knew I'd been reading her thoughts from a book. "I've heard of you, princess. May I add my condolences to what has happened to you and your family. None of House Targaryen deserved such a fate to have befallen them." _Well . . . Aerys and Rhaegar did, but none of the others_.

"I . . . I thank you for your kind words, Master Griff."

"Please, princess, just call me Griff." Once more, I grinned a boyish smile and I saw colour rise to her cheeks. _Damn this smile . . ._

"Griff . . ." her voice trailed off before she returned the expression. It was cute. "I'm happy to meet you. I-I thank you for your words. This manse as well . . . it is beautiful. Me and my brother have been hosted by many merchant princes and archons, but few could rival this. Viserys and I are thankful for your father's generosity."

"I thank you for the kind words and I'm sure my father would be most delighted. How long have you been here, Princess Daenerys?"

"A . . . a couple of fortnights." She swallowed. "N-not that long.

"What a shame. I wouldn't have minded showing you around the manse, but seeing as you've already found the library, you know where the most important room is."

She giggled. "Many areas are left unexplored still."

 _For good reason_. "Then I would love to show you around sometime, princess. There are many beautiful areas of the manse I'm sure you'll find to your liking. There are multiple gardens and courtyards and secret groves, oh, and the sunset is beautiful if you look out at the bay."

"I've seen a Pentoshi sunset on the bay. It is truly beautiful," she sighed. "My brother . . . my brother may not like you talking to me. You may want to leave."

"Prince Viserys, correct?"

"King Viserys," she corrected. "He's the true king of the Seven Kingdoms. He gets mad when you don't use his proper title. You wouldn't want to wake the dragon."

 _Wake the snake more like._ "King, Your Grace, alright, got it. I'll try not to answer incorrectly. Though I'll only take my leave if _you_ desire it. Otherwise I can stay and show you some of my favourite books. There are many good ones. I especially recommend Maester Yandels Fire and Blood which I've found to be most insightful, though I would take the histories with a pinch of salt. My father's collection is quite expansive though rarely does he actually read any of them. He's more a collector than a reader."

Daenerys nodded; violet eyes somewhat fixed on my blue-hair even though she seemed too polite to ask about it. It shouldn't be that out the ordinary. Many people in Essos dyed their hair. Tyrosh was everyone's first thought, but many in Pentos did so as well.

"I-I'm fine, Mast—Griff. Pray forgive me, but I must decline the offer . . . though I thank you for your kind words and generosity."

"Of course, princess. Should you ever be of need of anything, you can call for me and I'll come running. I'm at your service." I bowed my head and took her hand to plant a gentle kiss on the back of it. "Farewell, princess. The best of luck for your future endeavours, and those of your brother."

As I walked away, I thought, _perhaps it was for the best my plan had failed._

* * *

A/N: I know Dany only appeared in the very end for a short scene, and I know some of you would have wanted more of her, but the next chapters should compensate. I plan on having them bond a little. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'd like to hear your thoughts.

Comments:

Project Pseudonym: It is the pairing I've planned but should be quite controversial in-universe. Robert did have legitimacy helped by the fact Aerys spat in the face of his feudal obligations, but he still feared Viserys invading and many saw him as usurper. They will get dragons but no Unsullied.

Osterreicher97: Indeed, Aegon knows it's no longer possible and getting the Targaryens on side is a better plan. I forgot that Drogo was the son of a khal as well. That might make the kingsblood stronger, I should thinks.

TMI Fairy: Dorne is my favourite region and I like the Martells. The Blackfyre rebellion happened for multiple reasons; some justified, others not. Also makes it ironic that the last Blackfyre has Dornish sympathies.

cpt-jet: Such a union does have downsides, but so would any political marriage. Aegon still desires to hatch them because dragons are so useful that it'd be a terrible waste to not try to hatch them. For the Westerosi civil war, it is clear that both Varys and Littlefinger desire for the realm to erupt into conflict and the ingredients are there. It'll explain why the Westerosi would have difficulty attacking the GC next chapter.

VladImpaler: Next chapter will feature her a decent bit and there will be a POV of her and Viserys later on.

coldblue2015: Thanks for the comment! Daenerys surviving the pyre was a miracle so I doubt the same thing would happen here. In the books, Dany did seek companionship with her handmaidens and seemed open with her sexuality, so she might explore it, maybe. Euron Greyjoy is certainly going to be a primary antagonist throughout the story and will be stronger than his canon counterpart.

Dirk Digglit: Aegon's just being polite to a slave. Nothing wrong with some kindness towards them.

najex: Thanks. I don't think it's overdone. Agree with what you say about Dany. She's too young to be in a relationship and any pairing would be when she's older. I plan to give her companions such as Irri and Jhiqui, just like in canon, as well as others.

NeedingOfLifeGoalDude: Thanks for the review. I agree with what you said about the aftermath of battle. Even the men of the "good" side participates in it. It happens to every army throughout history and even the Starks were not except from it during the Wot5ks. Bolton and Karkstark forces raped and pillaged the Riverlands - sometimes under orders, sometimes not. That was one of the reasons the Brotherhood were against both Lannisters and Starks.

Keldor: For Lyra's backstory, she had been visited and was tutored by Archmaester Marwyn who had also taught Mirri Maz Duur. If anything, she's just following in his footsteps. Many of the maesters view the world scientifically, so I wouldn't consider it out of place, though I may have gone a bit overboard (which I tend to go) with her being an obvious foil with Melisandre so I'll try to rein that in for the future chapters. Another thing is that mages don't have a set way of doing things. Melisandre, for instance, is a capable seer, aeromancer and does fire magic. Little is known about the Rhoynar but with how magic is performed in-universe, I wouldn't be surprised if the ancient Rhoynar did sacrifice people in the waters. Vaquo does view the Westerosi as uncivilised barbarians, that is why he sees them behind Essos. It does make sense to think the maesters can be blamed for such a thing. There are only two known institutions in a continent the size of south America. That's the maesters and pyromancers, and the maesters have a monopoly on education and scientific advancement. These are my own views that monopolies stagnate everything and makes innovation so much harder. Lastly, the whole Aegon considering High Valyrian his third language and (English) the common tongue his second was a joke - the punchline was sarcasm being his primary language.

LvcivsSvlla: Cheers. I've realised I might have gone overboard with the witch, so I'll work on that in the coming chapters.


	17. Chapter 16: The Reveal

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 16: The Reveal**

* * *

As I laid in bed reading some books of Westerosi history, I reflected on my meeting with the Targaryens.

Daenerys was certainly something, and not the woman she would later become. She wasn't the dragon queen who survived the Great Grass Sea, manipulated the so-called Kind Masters of Astapor and launched a slave liberation against the most incompetent villains ever put to literature. Instead, Dany was sweet and kind and shy, with a love of history and songs and fanciful stories. I enjoyed talking to her and it would be wrong to say I wasn't fanboying a bit.

Viserys though . . .

I put the thick book to the side, blew out the candle and laid down, staring at the ceiling in near perfect darkness. Viserys was _interesting_ to say the least. While I did introduce myself, it was clear he didn't care for my presence. Polite once he discovered I was his host's son, but it was the cold distant formality one performed for politeness sake. In the initial meeting, we exchanged only a few words before I made a hasty retreat so he wouldn't raise questions. Later that day, we came face-to-face during one of Illyrio Mopatis' famous feasts. Viserys thought he was a king and certainly ate like one, going on and on about how his host would be justly rewarded for his deeds to House Targaryen once he got his throne. He made declarations and promises and all throughout, Magister Illyrio nodded along, acting the perfect Targaryen loyalist.

We ate seven courses for that was the holy number of the Seven and a way for Illyrio to show off his wealth if Viserys hadn't caught on already that the magister was stupidly rich. We began with thick frothy soup with a side dish of oatbread baked with bits of date, apple and orange. Then dozens of dishes were served with servants running back and forth: singing squid and lacquered duck, goat and roasted ham drenched in sickeningly sweet honey, even giant fish stuffed with prunes and peppers and lesser animals. There were grains as well, for while meat showed wealth, it didn't create a meal. There were fruits and cheeses, nuts and salad serving as carpets for grander cuisine. Each plate had been generously gifted with exotic spices of saffron, cinnamon, cloves and pepper and all other costly spices brought in from Illyrio's trading ships recently come in from the straits of Qarth. It hadn't only been food that made it memorable for entertainers were brought in as well. Singers from Braavos and Lys, a poet who told a story about two lovers from ancient Valyria before the Doom struck. Dany had cried and Viserys mentioned offhandedly that they'll sing about him one day. While this happened, wine flowed in an endless stream – rich sweet vintages from the Arbor, dreamwine from Qarth sweetened with sugar of lead – which I didn't drink – and an assortment of strange spices.

Between mouthfuls, Viserys spoke about how he was going to retake Westeros, kill Robert Baratheon himself and put the usurper's head on a spike where he would restore the Seven Kingdoms to the golden age it had been under the enlightened rule of his father. With the conviction Viserys said it, he truly believed King Aerys was a good man. I almost felt bad for him in his naivety. Sitting beside her brother, Daenerys rarely spoke unless spoken to and would always give a cautious glance to Viserys before opening her mouth.

A side of me had been all too willing to reveal myself to Viserys if just to see how he would flip out. That would have been hilarious, if somewhat self-destructive. It was easy to say he hadn't earned my sympathies with his actions. Regardless of my views on him, the Beggar King was still an important piece on the board from a political standpoint. He was the last male Targaryen - not counting Maester Aemon - and could command a decent deal of influence should I play my cards right. But what could I do with him exactly? Viserys was no military genius or statesman and nothing good would come of him taking the throne. The books and my recent first-hand experience of him threatening to slap a slave girl for almost spilling his drink had proven he would be a foolish gamble should I play the Tywin for his Aerys. He had the name, he had the looks, he had the title, but had nothing else going for him. He stood high and mighty, with an ego the size of a mountain and an entitlement just as big despite being an impoverished royal in exile.

 _I don't need him; I need his blood._

But surely, I didn't need him dead. Mayhaps just cut his palm or something like that. He didn't need to die. All Viserys had done was act like a dick and that wasn't worthy of death. I also didn't desire to upset Dany by killing her brother. He was the only kin she had and cared for him despite their dysfunctional relationship.

We did have the eggs in our procession. Illyrio had the three he planned to gift Daenerys for her wedding with Khal Drogo but another, a fourth, for myself. _We have four dragon eggs and three people with Targaryen blood._ The reaction was both happiness and caution. Giving Viserys Targaryen a dragon egg would be like giving a shark a submachine gun and the equivalent of shooting myself in the foot half a dozen times. I didn't need Viserys for the long term, but I was unsure how to rid myself of him after fulfilling whatever uses he had. _Hunting accident?_ Or should I declare myself his servant and let the Targaryen loyalists' rebel only for Vis to die in the heat of battle where I declare myself his heir through proxy? Magister Illyrio would certainly have his own ideas and they would conflict with my own.

 _Whatever happens, the future should prove interesting_.

Next morning, I decided to remove the blue dye from my hair. Standing before a basin filled with warm water, I pulled out a vial filled with cloudy liquid that produced a smell like boiled eggs. Nose flaring, the substance was poured in the basin where it quickly turned the water cloudy. Taking a breath, I stuck my head inside and scrubbed until blue ran down my face.

After washing with fresh water, I stared into the polished silver mirror. Gone was the blue dye and my hair was once again its natural silver-blond. With the War of the Four Kings coming closer and closer, I would need to reveal myself. I didn't need blue hair for that. Staring at the face before me, I tensed. "You can do this. You're not the same timid boy anymore. You fought Dothraki and sellswords, reformed the Golden Company into the ultimate fighting force and will soon hatch dragons. There is nothing Westeros can throw at you that comes even close." I paused. _Haldon's right. I do sound_ _cocky_.

After dressing in black linen garbs, I went for breakfast where servants were piling plates on the table for everyone excluding both Targaryens and father. Illyrio Mopatis must have decided for a private breakfast which he regularly did with guests from out of Pentos. Sitting down and placing a napkin on my lap, the serving girls presented me with pastries, crisp-fried bacon and garlic sausages, soft-boiled eggs, fruits, cheeses and bread steaming from the oven.

"I forget how much I miss this," Ser Rolly Duckfield declared, a wide grin on his face before digging right in and making sounds for everyone else to enjoy.

Disgusted, Lyra pushed her plate back. "There goes my appetite."

I snorted as Duck looked up at her, crumbs in his beard and grease running down his face. Haldon rolled his eyes and Septa Lemore covered her mouth to hold back a light laugh. "You should eat. We've a busy day."

"You have a busy day," she grinned slyly at me. "What was meeting your kin like?"

"Daenerys is sweet. I like her. Viserys though . . . I'm unsure."

"I'm sure you are," Haldon told me in a flat tone of disbelief as he wiped his mouth with a cloth. "Your distant cousins. Your house's rivals, as it happens."

"It would be fun to break the news, Aegon," Lyra declared in a sing-song voice. "Mayhaps you'll have a final duel to end the rivalry of two ancient enemies. Is King Viserys an accomplished swordsman? I'd hate you watch you die; I was just beginning to like you."

"The lad will make short work of him," Duck declared. "Prince Viserys is a weedy-pinched-faced ass. My squire is the second coming of Aegon the Dragon."

I almost had the grace to blush. "He's not really my enemy. We're on the same boat, them and I."

"The Beggar King though," Haldon mused, pausing. "I hear bad news of him. Word spread easily on how he acted when they refused his demands."

"Demands?"

"Initially, Prince Viserys didn't lack people willing to host him. Some magisters even offered to host him permanently. There is much prestige in hosting a royal court and the last Targaryens. Should Viserys gain the Iron Throne, he would surely reward the persons who helped him during his time of need. But the Beggar King never had a court, nor allies and he left the sheltered walls of their estates. Sometimes for fear of assassins, other times when they refused to buy him sellswords and fleets for Westeros."

"Like the Golden Company?"

"Like the Golden Company," Haldon confirmed. "Unlike your ancestors, the Targaryens never had a court in exile. Anyone sympathetic are either trying to survive on their own in Essos, joined Connington or have remained in Westeros after having bent the knee."

"So, when do you plan on marrying her?" Lyra asked abruptly.

I almost choked on my sausage and the Rhoynish mage offered a playful little smile. Pounding my chest, I looked up and eloquently replied with, "What?"

Duck laughed. "Marry her, lad. You'll be happy. She's a pretty little thing destined to be a great beauty one day. A pleasure to bed."

Haldon shook his head while Septa Lemore scolded him, "You have a filthy mind, Duck."

Lyra snickered. "A very dirty one. Tis a shame that's the cleanest part about him. The Targaryens though, your plan is obvious, my sweet prince. Kill the brother, marry the little sister. Maybe frame his death on the Baratheons. Make yourself king and unite two rival houses. You're not half as clever nor subtle as you like to think you are."

I gave her a sharp look. "Not the plan." _Not entirely_. Lyra didn't look convinced. "Though I'll freely admit to being unsure about our future. Our original plans failed and—"

"Few plans succeed," Septa Lemore told me in a voice of motherly wisdom. "You'd be a fool to think otherwise. Arrogance is a most dangerous sin, mayhaps the very worst, and those afflicted will suffer for it, as the seven-pointed-star tells us. Many great and wicked men have fallen victim to it."

"Praise the Seven," I said with a playful smile, "Wise fellows and I should heed their counsel." I had once been a christian, having been raised in a family of them and a firm believer in my youth. Those days had long gone but here, I would need to feign piety. _I'll work on that for Westeros. Get the Faith of the Seven behind me and act the pious king_. The smallfolk would love that for sure.

"You should, but first we will need to wait," Haldon told me. "There is nothing wise about rushing and we are in a good position. Our hold on the Triachy is secure and none of the other cities would be willing to act against us for some time. King Robert Baratheon may curse the existence of the alliance, but he is in no position to attack us for the Westerosi fleets can't rival the naval capabilities Essosi city states can call upon. Should he land, Westerosi logistics will be stretched to the breaking point. Such a conflict against professional soldiers with levies make victory for King Robert Baratheon functionally impossible."

"But would they actually attack?" I asked before biting into an apple. The sleeping giant was a perfect term to describe Westeros. It was a whole continent united under a single authority with near limitless manpower and expansive fortifications. Ridiculously powerful when it was finally got moving under a single leader, but slow to wake and prone to ignore the outside world to battle amongst itself.

"Robert Baratheon is a warrior king, even as fat as he is now, but he would be a fool to attack us. In the War of the Ninepenny Kings, many lords were content to allow the Nine to launch their invasion first and it required much stirring from King Jaehaerys the Second to get each of the kingdoms to send men to the Stepstones. Even then, it was closely contested and Maelys only had Tyrosh as a puppet, instead of all three daughters. It is just as well. The Golden Company needs to recover and the Seven Kingdoms are still strong. House Baratheon rules and its hold remains secure. Lord Stannis Baratheon protects the Narrow Sea with the royal fleet and Lord Renly controls the Stormlands. Lord Tywin rules the Westerlands, Lord Jon Arryn the Vale, Hoster Tully the Riverlands and Eddard Stark the North. That is at least five of the kingdoms standing shoulder to shoulder against an invasion. According to my estimates, combined, they should number forty-and-two-hundred-thousand men."

"By the Seven," Duck loudly cursed to Septa Lemore's frustration.

"That is if they use all their manpower, which they're not like to do. For the other kingdoms, the Dornish have no pieces in the game and shouldn't care if we win or lose. The Reach? You are like to find allies there. The hold of the Tyrells is secure and their bannermen have proven themselves in recent history to be united which is a most rare anomaly in such a divided province."

"Then there are the Ironborn," Dalabhar said, having already finished his meal and handing the plate to a slave to take away. "They should have no love for King Robert Baratheon. The Lord Paramount had his sons die in the Greyjoy Rebellion, so he'll hold no love for his overlord. But I would question their military strength. I have seen them fight first-hand, and doubt they'll be effective in fighting long-term wars. They are plunderers and their entire doctrine emphases lightening quick raids along the shoreline. Perhaps as a distraction, but I wouldn't trust them to hold off for long. The Iron Isles is well defended with rough seas and limited areas for naval landings. They have castles and their ships are designed to work in the currents. They still lost."

"Never considered them that useful anyway," I said, finishing my fruit.

Haldon continued. "Darry lost much of its strength in the rebellion. Their lands distributed to the neighbours they once ruled. Should be loyal to the Targaryens, but don't have much in the way of strength. Other houses are Mooton and some minor lords. But they're weak. Your strength will be the Reach. I would urge you to side with them. Don't try your hand at this scheme with Daenerys. Aim to align yourself with the Tyrells. Their territory is rich and fertile with enough supplies to feed your entire army. As I said about the Reach being united, they should give you eighty to a hundred-thousand men. A third of which are heavy cavalry. Margaery is unmarried, a maiden and reputed to be very pretty."

 _Most of George's characters are pretty_ , I mused, though that wasn't on my list of priorities. I would marry Lollys Stokeworth if it gave me a decisive edge. _Close your eyes and think of England_ , was the saying. While I wasn't a fan of arranged marriages, I had to have one for my plans. I may not be happy, but personal happiness didn't matter at the end of the day.

Running a hand through by hair, I sighed. "A pretty little virgin doesn't give me a throne. Soldiers will. Armies will. Allies will."

"The Tyrells will give you that and more," Haldon urged. "Against all the enemies you face, you _need_ the Tyrells. They're the best chance you have to take the Iron Throne. You need coin and fodder more than just legitimacy. Robert had a claim, a stronger claim than you, yes, but it was weaker than the Targaryens and he sits well enough. It was his hammer that truly won him the Seven Kingdoms."

"Why not marry two?" Duck asked, wiping his mouth after gulping down a cup of fine wine like it was cheap bear. "Marry two like Aegon the Conqueror did with his sister wives. Or go further and marry three."

"Are you a foolish Duck?" Haldon asked him. "The Conqueror married before his invasion of Westeros and he had _dragons_. Three of them. What does the lad have and even then, do you know how dangerous polygamy is?"

"It is," Vaquo said abruptly and I turned to the moon-faced Volantene. "I may try to avoid politics like the grey plague, but I know the danger from my own experience. Your own kin become as trusted as your most bitter enemies. Your life becomes full of rivalries as mothers try to rise their children higher in the line of succession. Inside the Black Walls, one can't survive for long unless they build an immunity to poisons."

"He is correct," Lyra supported. "Remember, Aegon, when you asked me to poison you to build up resistance? Vaquo accidentally drank some and it barely affected him."

"Only got a light stomach pain. Mother weened me on poison."

"She's been poisoning you?" Haldon stared at me with surprise, the same expression as everyone else at the table.

"Would explain why you got sick those few times," Dalabhar muttered wryly.

I only nodded, not caring for that conversation. I did ask Lyra to leave traces amounts in my food and drink. Nothing like being crazy prepared against assassination attempts. "Vaquo is right, Duck. Such an idea will lead to civil war and did when Aegon the Conqueror performed it. His descendants fought over the throne and the realm bled. I won't make the same mistake when I sit my throne."

"Your throne?" Lyra asked politely. "You have the ambition of a true dragon."

 _Did I say my throne?_ "For what I plan for Westeros, you need some level of ambition and a high degree of authority will make it all the easier to perform it."

"You know, Egg, that is mayhaps the one thing that allows Prince Viserys to sleep at night."

I gave her a questioning look.

"Let me think on his history. From what I could get from Connington and others, Viserys had been sheltered by the Mad King, away from his mother and everyone else. Leading to him being a spoiled little thing which is understandable when you are the king's favourite son. Then, unexpectedly, you're exiled to a strange foreign land, losing all your kin besides a new-born baby sister who is a result of a complication that killed the mother. After, what, five years? You have been thrown out the only home you know with only the clothes on your back and caring for a child who's a decade younger—"

"Eight years," Haldon corrected.

"Eight years," Lyra conceded. "They go from place to place, feeding on charity and are replied to with mocking, for I don't think Beggar King is a charitable title. Then here you are, the perfect prince who'd been lovingly grown from a bean. Protected, sheltered and taught by a chainless maester who left the Citadel, a lovely septa and an exiled lord who treated you as his own son. Oh, and a mighty duck to teach you at arms. You have what the Targaryens lacked, given freely what needed to fight for. A pampered boy who's blind to think they would just stand to the side as you demand things from them. From _him_ especially."

I frowned. "Nice little monologue, but what are you saying?"

"You speak like they are just going to do what you want. The plan with the Dothraki failed for Khal Drogo did as he wanted and had a will of his own. What is to say the Targaryens find out and flee, fearing your whale of a father will poison them at his own table? But should they find out, oh, the anger will be very real especially with what happened with the Golden Company. Viserys' pride would surely turn to rage and all he's got is his pride."

"Thank you, Lyra," Haldon muttered with false warmth. "Not a day goes by without your most valuable insight."

"He deserves it," she grinned. "In truth, I care little for the politics of the Seven Kingdoms or whatever you have planned for them. I don't know the Targaryens, they are strangers to me. But I am kind enough to give you this advice, young prince: earn your way into their good graces. You don't know what could happen."

The room was silent, and it was Septa Lemore who broke the stillness. "She is right, it pains me to say. Prince Viserys has had a most tragic life. I don't envy him, even less his sister. They are poor children and young Daenerys is a lonely one. You know I've supported you, despite my disagreements with what you do and who you associate with." She gave a not-so-subtle glance at Lyra who was sipping from her cup. "You know I will always stand beside you and give counsel whenever you require it. You're a better man than you act and one that can do better for them."

"Nice words, but the world is not a song," Dalabhar said in his monotone voice. "What is needed and what should be are different things."

"But that doesn't mean you shouldn't work on having the world as it should be. The world is bad enough without adding to it. Aegon, I know you have it in you to improve. Those machines, I know, have helped Illyrio and can help Westeros. It'll be harder, I'll admit, but it's a goal you should strive for. In deeds and not solely results."

I stared at the handsome Dornishwoman for a moment, then looked down at my food where a fly had decided to land. I pushed the plate away, suddenly not hungry. "I want to, Lady Septa. But sometimes we don't the luxury."

"No excuses. I know you have changed after losing your memories and despite everything you've accomplished, I want him back."

"Him?"

"I meant the way you were. The young boy who smiled and spent his days swimming in the Rhoyne. The boy who loved hearing stories about Princess Nymeria and had dreams of being a true knight like Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Serwyn of the Mirror Shield and Ser Galladon of Morne. The boy who would play with the children in whatever town we crossed, despite Old Griff's threats of punishment. I know it won't happen and I'm a fool to want it, but I miss what had been. The Seven Kingdoms need another Aegon the Unlikely, another Jaehaerys. A Baelor Breakspear. Not another Tywin Lannister."

There was a harsh silence in the room. I licked my lips, not that it helped much for how parched my mouth became in that short moment. "I never desired to be Tywin Lannister. I don't desire to be a monster."

"I never said you were a monster, Aegon. I would never imagine you were anything of the sort." She looked at my sympathetically. "But sometimes I fear you're walking the same path. Please be careful. I know you're a bright and courteous young man, well-read and capable of much mercy. Let the world know it."

 **...**

After sparring against Ser Duck, I found Dany and Lemore in the garden, sitting at a stone bench near a secluded alcove. The princess was smiling and giggling from the septa's jest. Daenerys' long blonde hair had been brushed until it shone, and was dressed in a white linen tunic but had removed her sandals so her exposed feet were brushing the grass. The looks she shared with the septa made her look unnervingly innocent but there was a playfulness as well. "Lady septa, princess," I called out to them before performing a bow.

Daenerys simply smiled, Lemore chuckled. "Finish your sparring have you, Young Griff? Hopefully you have cleaned yourself up. You're a growing boy and I do abhor the smell of sweat."

"I did so, lady septa. I bathed and scrubbed until my skin was raw. Then I took a sniff and did it some more."

"Your hair . . . it is silver," Dany observed.

"Like yours. Guilty as charged," I chuckled as I ran a hand through the waves that had more gold in them than her pale silver. "My mother was from Lys. I inherited my hair and eyes from her. Everything else I got from my father." When she opened her mouth, I quickly added, "When he was a young man, of course. He was a bravo, a sellsword like myself."

"Yourself? Y-you're a sellsword?"

"I joined a sellsword company to learn to fight. The Golden Company in fact."

She turned away. "Oh."

"Daenerys? Are you alright, sweet child?" Lemore asked, putting a hand on the little princess.

"I didn't mean to offend. It wasn't my intention," I blurted out.

"I'm sure it wasn't," she told my feet. "I was just surprised. I wouldn't think you were a sellsword . . . I wouldn't think that would be what Magister Illyrio would wish of you."

"My father offered me a choice of that or follow his example and maybe captain a ship. The sea doesn't always agree with me, but swinging a sword does. So I made my choice." A few times I had thought of abandoning Westeros and just focus on Essos, spending my time on commerce and industry. It didn't matter now. I had gone too far to look back. "May I ask what you two lovely girls are doing?"

Lemore chuckled. "Girl? Please, Griff. People may call me lovely but I have not been called a girl for many a decade." She shook her head with a playful grin. "We have just been talking. Though the matter is of little importance to you. Simply how the princess has been going around Essos." Her eyes turned sympathetically to a Daenerys who was looking at the grass and fiddling with her fingers. "You are safe now. No one is going to hurt you."

 _The assassins_ , I remembered. Did Robert send assassins, or did Jon Arryn convince his king to not send them? Even if the Iron Throne didn't hire anyone, there was bound to be some opportunistic sellsword wanting to earn quick coin and perhaps a lordship from a thankful king across the pond. "You are safe here. The manse is surrounded by high walls and patrolled by Unsullied who are the best guards in the world." That was a lie, but a white lie and that wouldn't hurt. She still looked concerned so without thinking, I said, "If that is not enough, I could, uh, promise to protect you myself, Princess Daenerys." I couldn't bite my tongue fast enough. She looked up, confused. _Dig myself deeper why don't I?_ "A princess needs guards, and they're always knights. I am not a kingsguard nor even knight, I confess, but I am being trained by a knightly Duck who has made me his own squire. Regardless, I offer myself as your sworn shield. Be your knight in everything but name . . . if you agree, of course."

Daenerys stared, then burst into a soft giggle. "That is sweet of you. I may take you up on your offer, Master Griff. I, Princess Daenerys of House Targaryen, most humbly accept your offer should you serve faithfully and obey without question."

I bowed, trying hard not to laugh. I was surely the first person who offered to serve as her bodyguard. In truth, it was more to comfort her and, as I looked into her eyes, I believed that Daenerys knew that to. I went to my knees and made the promise; only at the end did I notice the intrigued look Septa Lemore gave me. Taking a seat opposite them in the lush grass, I listened to them talk about the mysteries of the Seven and the duties expected of a Targaryen princess. About midway through, I went to grab some paper and charcoal. When I returned, I took a seat before them and began to sketch.

"What are you doing?" Dany asked.

"Just a little drawing," I said with a little smile. "Unless you don't want me to. I thought it would be nice, is all. It's a nice day, the sun is out, and the birds are singing in the trees. You look at peace. I wanted to capture this moment. If you don't desire me to, I can stop."

"No . . . you can continue if you wish," she smiled shyly. "This is the first time someone's ever thought . . . Do I . . ."

"Just hold still until I do the outlines." Daenerys did so, with me mostly focusing on the face. She had soft, delicate features with a dainty little nose and large eyes framed with thick lashes. She was sure to grow up into a great beauty. Hell, she was already showing signs of it, and would become more so in time. Soon, the outlines were done and I began the shading and details. All the while we talked of Westeros, Pentos, my exploits and where Dany had travelled. She told us how she loves sailing, the smell of the sea, her dreams of being a sailor and exploring the world. I only smiled a sad little smile and let her speak. When done, I grinned and blew off the dust before flipping the parchment to show her.

Dany's eyes grew wide. "You drew that . . . it is beautiful. May I?" I offered the paper and she examined it, delighted. "It's wonderful. This is the first time anyone has drawn me."

"You have a face for it," I smiled shyly.

Septa Lemore chuckled. "He is talented. Better than the one you did of me, I'll say. Mayhaps another?"

"If that is what you desire, Lady Septa. With a princess' patronage, I know what to do should I fail serving the Golden Company. Young Griff the Artisan. Though I confess, that doesn't have the same ring to it." I forced a laugh, remembering a similar conversation. "I'm glad you like it, Daenerys. I believe it fits your likeness well enough. You may keep it if that is your desire. A little gift."

She beamed. "Thank you, Master Griff. This means a lot to me." She held it close to her and I swear her cheeks turned rosy. "I'll keep it close always."

 **...**

It was the next night when I pulled off the silk sheets and rose from bed. My toes wigged in the plushness of the Myrish carpet before I put on a pair of muffled sandals. I had agreed to do something tonight and, to be frank, I was looking forward to it.

Sneaking through the empty corridors, illuminated only by a candle, I made my way to the guest wing both Targaryens had been given. Reaching her door, I knocked in a rhythm of three rapid beats so Daenerys knew it was me. I glanced down the hall, towards Viserys' room. He slept next to his sister's chamber and each night he had been spoiled by Illyrio's servants, especially the comely slave girls like Larra and Doreah who'd recently been brought from Lys. Illyrio did pamper Viserys, calling him "Your Grace," providing him with handsome silk clothes with Targaryen livery, a well-crafted sword and servants to tend to his every need, not to mention wrapping the princeling around his fat fingers. All manipulation, it was clear to see. A shame poor Viserys couldn't. Illyrio confirmed all Viserys' beliefs and nursed his ego. Such an action would be intoxicating to the exiled prince, no doubt. He'd been denied treatment for years and now had the richest men in Pentos giving him all he craved. It was also making him completely reliant. I didn't know my father's plan, but Viserys wasn't the end goal.

The door opened and Daenerys stood there in her white night dress and slippers. "Princess," I whispered, bowing my head and trying hard not to smile.

In the darkness were the bodies of the Dothraki in the oversized bed, having just stirred from their slumber. The smaller Irri gawked, rubbing her eyes while her thick black mane was tangled from sleep. With their permission, I gave them the opportunity to serve Daenerys as her personal handmaidens. Both girls accepted and Dany had been surprised before agreeing. They got along well, which was good. Daenerys needed some friends around her age and both Dothraki girls needed someone to treat them kindly. I just had to ensure her older brother wouldn't mistreat them.

She stood up straight, "You offered to show me the stars . . ." Then looked towards Viserys' room, her awkwardness returning. "What if he—"

"He won't," I promised. _Not after he's been whoring . . ._

I offered the Targaryen my arm and escorted her outside to one of the gardens. We laid down and stared up at the night skies above. There were no clouds and the stars were out. Thousands of burning stars in the form of flickering lights, some bright, some dim, but all beautiful. The air was chilly, but that was part of the appeal for me. I liked the cold. It helped me relax. As we stared up at the sky, the only sound was the rustling of the trees and our own breathing.

"There must be hundreds of them," Dany sighed. "They're so tiny."

I chuckled, crossing my arms behind him head. "There are untold billions. There are more stars in the sky than grains of sand in the world."

Daenerys turned to me, pursing her pouty lips. "You are lying."

"I'm not," I grinned. "Space is a vast place. There are stars and planets, shooting stars and comets. There are untold numbers of them. Each one of those stars is around the size of the sun, maybe larger, maybe smaller, but all massive. Some of them are not even visible to the naked eye. Space is amazing." It was sad to think that most of this world had no understanding of space and what laid within it.

"You are being silly," though Dany didn't sound convinced of her own words and paused. "When I was little, when we were still in Braavos, I remember having a teacher. He was old and grey, with hair he combed over to hide a bald spot. After . . . after he left, I was taught by Viserys. I was never graced with a septa nor a maester of the Citadel." She looked back at the night sky and shivered from a cold gust of wind. "I heard him say stars are the souls of the dead looking down at us. I do wish that was true. I want my parents and brother watching over me, protecting me . . ."

I felt a tug of sympathy. It made me remember my own family and friends from earth. I had made peace with never seeing them again, but it still hurt to think about. "Either that or they're just balls of fire." I chuckled and Daenerys gave me a pointed look. "I never said he was wrong. I'm sorry, Princess Daenerys . . . pray forgive me." I bit my lip lightly, thinking about my next words. "I understand what it's like to lose someone."

Daenerys rolled over to look at me. She was barely an arm's length away. "I never met them." Her voice was so gentle I strained to hear.

Just the look of her face made me want to hug her, hold her tight and whisper sweet promises into her ear. "Maybe my mother is up there to. I lost her as well. She died of greyscale. I was but a babe when she died. She wasn't born in Westeros, but her ancestors came from there. My father still has a locket of her in his room. Sorry to say, I'm not close to my father, though I'll admit to being closer to the teachers who cared for me like how parents care for their children." While her voice was full of sadness for the family she had never known, I spoke about mine matter-of-factly. My own tone surprised me more than I would care to admit.

Daenerys rolled over to her side, purple eyes full of sympathy. "Griff . . . I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

We just laid there, staring up at the night sky in silence. It was relaxing and I was thankful. I swear that if my hair wasn't silver, it would have already began to grey. "Dany—Daenerys. I mean . . . Princess Daenerys Targ—"

She giggled. "You make me sound like a crowd. We're friends. You can call me that."

 _Friends . . ._ I was lying to her though. Did friends, true friends, lie? I took a shaky breath. "Friends," I agreed. _Soon, I'll tell her the truth_. "Dany, if you could make a wish, any wish, what would it be?"

"A wish? Anything? There is so much. A comfy bed and a warm hearth. My family never to have been exiled by the usurper. My brother and mother and father, nephew and niece alive and happy. I want a house with a red door." The last wish was spoken softer than the others.

"A house with the red door?" I knew what she was referring to. The residence of her youth, the place where Ser Darry protected them. _She wants a home, she wants to be loved by family_.

"My home . . . or the closest thing to one. Before we came here . . . before we were forced to travel around, we lived there, in Braavos. I remember the wooden beams adorned with animals, the kitchens smelling of sweet cakes and the lemon tree growing outside my window. Ser Willem Darry protected us. We had servants and I felt . . . it felt normal. I was happy there, but we were kicked out when he died and the servants stole everything we had. Then we . . . then we . . ." Her voice broke.

"You're safe now," I said, feeling a need to comfort her. Despite everything, I just couldn't see her as anything other than a scared little girl. _That'll be the death of me, I wager_. "We'll protect you, the both of you. I'll make sure of it. The usurper's assassins won't find you, nor can they get to you. If that's not enough, well, I did promise to protect you myself." I forced a chuckle to break the tense mood. "I said I would, and who wouldn't want to protect a princess?"

She giggled after a moment and the tension was forgotten. "Thank you for your words. In truth though . . . I don't feel like a princess."

"Few would in your situation," I agreed, wondering if somewhere in the night sky was earth. Was I in a different planet or a different universe? Questions with answers I would never know. As I believed there was an innumerable number of infinite parallel universes, each one different from my own, I wagered there was one where I had been transferred into the body of Aegon the Trueborn, where he survived infancy and was having an foursome with his aunt, his sister Rhaenys and a female version of Aegon Blackfyre. _Fuck that kid and fuck the being that sent me to this world instead of that one_.

Once more, Daenerys broke the silence. "My brother wants us to stay here. Normally we don't stay long, b-but . . . he thinks it's for the best." Her plump lips smiled, shy and sweet. "I would miss losing a friend . . . and the others."

"Others?" I chuckled. She did meet Vaquo and Lyra and Dalabhar. Both mage and engineer didn't care she was a Targaryen. Lyra disliked them from the start and made a point to avoid both. Vaquo, as expected, didn't really care and mentioned in passing that they're no true dragonlords. Dalabhar was courteous in his cold formal way but that was it. Daenerys didn't really have any relations with those three. She was closer to Duck, Haldon and Septa Lemore who taught and laughed with her. "I would miss you to, Dany. I would miss being without a friend . . . would you keep the secret of a friend?"

She rolled over where her silvery hair sprawled out on the ground. She ran her hand through it, tucking the strands behind her ears. "It depends on the secret," the princess' voice was quiet.

I might as well tell her sooner rather than later. Nothing good came from deceiving the Mother of Dragons. Taking a deep breath, I said, "I won't lie to you. I hope you're aware that I care about you, Daenerys, more than I would have thought. I've been lying to you since we met."

"Lying?" She sat up. The warmth of her voice had vanished and she looked much more distant. Guarded. "You lied to me? What is the lie? Tell me truthfully. I demand it."

 _She demands it, like a queen_. "My name for starters. My name's not Griffin, nor Griff. Not officially anyway. I was called it once upon a time, a nickname to hide my true identity. Nor am I a Mopatis. He is my father though. It is my mother I get my last name from. My house name. I am not Griff Mopatis . . ." I paused because for some reason that just felt right. "My name is Aegon. Aegon Blackfyre."

"Aegon? _Blackfyre?_ " Her face darkened and voice grew louder. "My house's enemy? Pretenders?"

"You could say so," I accepted, sitting up. Daenerys stood, looking down at me. Even if I didn't know she hatched dragons, sacked cities and all other stuff, there was something intimidating despite her size. "I am the last one. My mother was the daughter of the last Daemon Blackfyre, unknown and had been a sex slave. She didn't deserve such a fate. We're here now, Dany—"

" _No_. Don't call me that," she scowled and took a step back. "You're a Blackfyre . . ."

"I am," I agreed. "And I can't change that. Neither can you change the fact you were born a Targaryen."

Her face flickered before softening after a moment. "No. I suppose not." She slacked her shoulders. "I . . . I'm sorry . . . for the outburst. It was unbecoming of me."

"Don't apologise. It is me who should. I should have told you sooner." I stood up and put a hand on her shoulder. Daenerys shuddered and I immediately let go, apologising. "It's alright. I'm not my ancestors, if that's what you fear. I have no ambition to sit the Iron Throne. That is your brother's right." That was a lie, but I needed to tell her what she wanted to hear.

Her eyes flickered and she looked into my eyes. Purple on purple. "So . . . _Aegon_." Her voice broke and she took a sip of breath. "I . . . I thank you for the honesty. Thank you for telling me the truth."

The air around us was tense and I looked towards the manse. "Perhaps we should return inside, princess. We don't want your brother to find out, now do we?" I offered her my arm, but she refused. It was clear Dany was shaken and unsure on what to make of it. Our two families had been fighting for generations. Daenerys had probably been raised on horror stories of the Blackfyre pretenders, and I was one. Instead of pushing, I bowed my head politely. "While I would gladly escort you, I trust you can see yourself to your chambers. It has been nice talking to you, Princess Daenerys Targaryen."

I turned on the balls of my feet and walked away. She didn't say anything back.

 **...**

The very next morning, Viserys glared at me from across the room.

The Mad King's son had the classical Valyrian features: pale skin like that of an albino, silver-blond hair and lilac eyes that were paler than his sister's. He stood taller than myself, with a gaunt face and hard lines from a life of surviving in a foreign land. The expression towards me was nothing short of malicious. Viserys was well dressed though, garbed in a woollen half-cloak tied around his neck with a black iron chain and a black silken doublet embroidered with a three-headed scarlet dragon crusted with tiny rubies. He wore gilded boots patterned with intricate details and on his bronze studded belt was a borrowed sword meant to make him look kinglier.

Daenerys had snitched on me.

"A Blackfyre?" The Targaryen pretender glared at Illyrio. "You brought me into your home, let me eat your food and sleep in your beds. Me and my sister, in the same house as a Blackfyre! My family's enemies! They had slain our blood. Tried to steal—"

"Just as yours had slain mine." I had no weapon on my person. In the room, the only people armed were Viserys and the Unsullied household guards waiting for steel to finally expose itself. Flanking me stood Lyra and Dalabhar in a simple green tunic and sandals. The Summer Islander didn't look equipped for a fight, but I knew he was as fast as he looked strong and the man looked inhumanly strong. "Blood has been shed both sides." My eyes turned to Daenerys who stood behind her older brother and refused to meet my gaze.

"Both sides have killed each other," Septa Lemore said, trying hard to act the sensible one in this minefield. "I know there is a bloody history between your two sides . . . but you're one family—"

"We're not family," Viserys growled. "We never were. Oh, we may have shared blood once upon a time. But you are no true dragons, now are you? Only impostors."

I disagreed. The Blackfyres married family members to keep the blood strong. A few married outside but most married their cousins and siblings. That made the Blackfyres just as inbred as the Targaryens, if not more so. _When it comes to blood purity, I may actually win_. It wasn't a competition I desired to win, but never mind. "I don't claim to be a Targaryen. And I am no impostor, for it seems I'm a little too honest for my own good. Isn't that right, Dany?"

"Blackfyre, Targaryen, what's the difference?" Illyrio asked, throwing his arms high in the air. "Scales of red, scales of black, a dragon is still a dragon."

" _What's the difference?_ " Viserys spat those words, hand tight around the leather cased handle. " _All the difference!_ They fought my family, sought to kill my ancestors! Daemon the Pretender tried to steal the Iron Throne from his rightful king! His house tried to invade the Seven Kingdoms and steal what belongs to House Targaryen!"

"I didn't and that's what's important," I said calmly, though the urge to stab Viserys with his own sword was increasing by the second. "Our families might have been enemies but we're on the same boat now. We're both exiles in Essos. It is the stags who sit the Iron Throne. They are the true enemy for both our houses. They were the ones who exiled you, who killed your brother, his wife and their children. It was Ser Jaime Lannister who stabbed your father in the back on the steps of the Iron Throne. The ones you should be angry with are the Houses Baratheon and Lannister. Not I."

Viserys eyes flickered for a moment so I pushed forward.

"They have the strength of the Seven Kingdoms at their disposal. Hundreds of thousands of men. Men-at-arms, smallfolk levies and knights of both great renown and dark infamy. What have you got, Your Grace? I stand with the Golden Company. Twenty thousand strong and the finest military in the east. We hold sway with Lys, Myr and Tyrosh and even hold influence over the Free City of Pentos. We have swayed their leaders and their navies will sail under our banner. What do you have besides that borrowed sword and the clothes on your back?"

"The rightful claim," Dany proclaimed, before withdrawing into her shell once more. "The lords of Westeros will support us."

"Princess Daenerys, must I inform you that one doesn't lose a claim, it only weakens every generation." _But what does a claim truly matter to force of arms?_ "While we stand here and bicker, the usurper's hold is getting stronger and any invasion either of us launches will have a harder time. While some may disagree, I would rather stand second in the Seven Kingdoms than first in a village."

Viserys didn't like the sound of that. "What you are is a fool. I am no fool, _Aegon_." He spat the name out. "How dare you take that name. You steal the name of my ancestor. The name of—"

"Aegon is my ancestors name to."

"A fate you don't deserve," the Beggar King growled, acid dripping from his voice. "My nephew had that very name. He would have been a king had he not died. Yet you take it and live. It should have been you in his place."

There was a deathly silence. A glance at Illyrio told me all I needed to know. "Perhaps I should have," I said softly. "It would have been easier, but that is not the fate the gods have handed to us. None of us choose to be born and only a few choose when they die. But we're here now, standing in this room in a manse in Pentos. This is perhaps the only choice that truly matters, Your Grace. I have sure as hell made mine."

The Beggar King's brows creased. "You seek to manipulate me. I am no fool."

Lyra chuckled. "I'd disagree."

"Shut your whore mouth! No one speaks that way to the dragon! I should kill you right now!"

The humorous look vanished and Lyra's entire face darkened in a way I had never seen before. "Not before I end you, Viserys Targaryen. I will slit your throat with your own shadow if you step out of line. By the grace of the Mother Rhoyne, I really want to end your line right here."

Viserys' rage flared. He drew his sword from its casing and pointed it at her. " _The dragon will not be made a fool of!_ "

That was a mistake. Within an eye-blink, Dalabhar pressed forward. Before the Targaryen could react, the sword was wrenched from his grip and the Summer Islander lifted Viserys up by the neck with a single arm. It was an impressive achievement; Viserys was a tall dude. The exiled prince's face turned white. He shouted and begged and struggled to rip himself free. Nails clawed the arm holding him, flaying flesh and leaving savage bloody marks. Dalabhar didn't react.

"You made a mistake when you exposed your blade, Prince Viserys. I trust you won't be this foolish in the future." He didn't scream, nor did he shout. Dalabhar didn't even raise his voice. But he was angry, if not more so than Viserys. That made it more terrifying.

Casually, the Summer Islander threw the princeling across the room as easily as a child might throw a doll. Viserys Targaryen was sprawled out on the marble, his little sister rushing over to him. When he looked up, Viserys' face was naked fear. Dalabhar stepped back to his previous position, borrowed sword in hand.

The Unsullied stepped forward, spears at the ready. Illyrio's face was covered with droplets of sweat, Haldon cursed under his breath and Septa Lemore prayed to the Seven. Viserys was shaking and his anxious sister had tears running down her cheeks. Once I had pitied Viserys, despite him being an ass, for he had a bad life. But now I only felt anger. _Take a deep breath. In and out_. "I hold no hatred for either of you. If we wanted you dead, you would be. But you're alive and safe under this roof. You were given guest rights in the Westerosi custom. One you were dangerously close to breaking. Is there something you wish to say, father?"

Magister Illyrio nodded, recollecting his composure in a shockingly short space of time "My son is correct. We are not your enemies. We don't plan to be unless you make us, yet you seem to be forcing our hand. Divided, House Targaryen and Blackfyre are weak. Together we are strong. King Viserys, you are the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms, but you lack the necessary army. Allow us to serve you as your most humble servants. Forgive Master Dalabhar, like the humble and merciful king you are, and we can look past this. In return, we offer twenty thousand men willing to serve and return House Targaryen to its rightful throne."

To his credit, Viserys looked to consider this, until he grimaced. "And what do you want for this most generous offer? Gold, titles?" He glanced at me. "Made a Targaryen?"

"I am a Blackfyre. My great grandfather had been legitimised but created his own house. By the laws of legitimisation, I am by all rights a Targaryen. I, however, don't desire to carry the name, nor do I desire coin and titles. What I do want, and I speak on behalf of the Golden Company both old and new, I want my ancestor's home. Like yourselves, we are exiles. I would think that'll make us sympathise with each others plights."

"And the hand of the princess," Illyrio was quick to interject. "We'll reunite the branches of the houses Targaryen and Blackfyre, mend what has been broken. You have a sister, and I have a son. That should put aside the bad blood between both houses and bring peace where there has only been war."

Viserys looked to be debating it, then sighed. "Do I have a choice?"

 _No you don't_.

Viserys stood up and straightened his clothes. He looked ready to decline, then looked down at Dany. "Sweet sister, do dry your tears. You're a dragon and dragons do not cry." Dany nodded and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. There was concern in his eyes but then Viserys turned to me, his face grew cold. "I'll accept your offer, Blackfyre. Bend the knee and declare me your rightful king. Swear an oath of fealty." Viserys almost smirked and I felt like spitting in his face.

Fighting back a grimace, I did as he bid and swore an oath to some gods I didn't believe in. When I finally rose back to my feet, I was his servant, as were the Golden Company and all its tributary states.

* * *

A/N: Apologies for the wait, I expected to upload this sooner but I suffered a few delays. Quite a few things have happened in this chapter. I wrote two fluffy scenes between Aegon and Daenerys because I thought I thought it would have been sweet before Aegon finally revealed himself. Then there is the Viserys scene at end which I enjoyed writing.

I might have said somewhere that I was going to have two chapters before a Daenerys and Viserys pov chapter, well, I combined chapter sixteen and seventeen after deleting what was mostly filler. Between a choice of a short chapter or just merging them together, I picked the latter. The next chapter will be an interlude from both the Targaryen povs, though mostly Daenerys. Hoped you enjoyed this chapter and would like to hear your thoughts.

Comments:

Zoom99: Drogo is captured, and his horde is no more. There is no use marrying him to anyone.

Najex: For every action, there is a positive and negative reaction. I do want Aegon to make some mistakes, be it minor or major and some of them may benefit him in some ways. You're right about decency, for that seems to be one of the primary themes of the Asoiaf.

An interesting point with Viserys marrying Margaery. It would provide the Reach and Mace Tyrell will be very interested with the idea. I do think Viserys would think of such a union himself, choosing between her or Arianne. Of course, it's whether the Blackfyre faction will allow that. They want Viserys to be reliant on them and the Tyrells provide Viserys with a powerbase that'll cripple Golden Company influence. As such, they'll be against it.

VladImpaler: Thanks. Aegon was caught in the moment of stargazing and let that get the better of him. Daenerys doesn't like being lied to, so it's better he revealed himself sooner than later.

coldblue2015: Viserys does have quite a low life expectancy at this point, for one reason or another. He isn't that cunning, and many see him as nothing more than a useful tool. Revealing himself could be considered a decent move. When Barristan and Jorah revealed their lies, Daenerys made them crawl through a sewer to capture Meereen and exiled the latter. I actually do plan for the fourth egg to be black and purple so you're correct about that. Westeros needs a fair but firm ruler, one that can be kind but pragmatic as well. Being a hated ruler is the worst thing you can be.

TMI Fairy: poor Lollys. She's treated nothing more than a joke by all the characters.

Adato: Viserys won't be granted any true power. He's a puppet who is reliant on Illyrio and a disloyal Golden Company. He is under more danger now than before, even if he's not fully aware of it.

Y: Aegon personally doesn't care about the Targ name. The Westerosi do for it's their culture to put value in old names and titles. Daenerys is a pretty, likeable young girl and he's got the mind of a young adult (who from my experience tend to act immature) and is in the body of an increasingly hormonal teenage boy. Half of Aegon's plans end up failing in some way, mostly due to his own actions, so he's forced to improvise which doesn't always end up working out. Even if Viserys tries to do something, he holds little power to do anything because he's a puppet king.

osterreicher97: Viserys is in a tough spot. The Golden Company is his only chance and he's desperate, but at the same time, they hold no true loyalty and he knows that. Unlike the Dothraki, he is aware of the political threat the Blackfyres are and offering the marriage provided only more political legitimacy to their cause. Connington does know the truth about Aegon and is still in the Targaryen camp, though he still supports Aegon for all the years they'd been together. Ser Jon isn't now motivated to returning the Targaryens as much as avenging Rhaegar by killing Robert and his line. I can't see him doing nothing and would instead give himself another means to avenge his failures.

NeedingOfLifeGoalDude: Yea, quite a few things happen this chapter. Viserys has a few Tywin's around him and none like him. The small council will properly be changed to allow more people on it, for there's not enough positions and those that exist are too broad in scope. It'll also need Westerosi lords to not alienate the natives. The hope for the fic is to have increased bureaucracy and government organisations. Like Myles Toyne being in charge of a newly created state army. Varys can head internal security while Lysono Maar in charge of external security, for instance. I would have put Harry Strickland in charge of an Office of Development for he knows currency and logistics, which Vaquo cares little for. Who does what will need to be done later for I haven't planned that far ahead yet, and a few could die by that point. For Grandmaester, the position may be scraped, or at least given to someone known to be loyal to the Targaryen cause, so Haldon's the most likely candidate for the moment. The Targaryens won't be going to Slaver's Bay, nor will they get the Unsullied. For the story, I plan on them attacking earlier for I don't want a repeat of my Retribution fic.

AcedragonIV: As mentioned above, Viserys is a king in name only. He is unable to do anything without the approval of the "servants" he is completely reliant on for whatever meagre power he has. A small portion of the GC may be hardcore Targaryen loyalists but they're only a minority and I doubt JonCon will help him when Aegon and Daenerys can provide him what he desires.


	18. Interlude: Two Exiled Dragons

**Catalyst**

 **Interlude: Two Exiled Dragons**

* * *

Viserys stood alone on the balcony, staring across the Bay of Pentos towards Westeros and King's Landing, the Iron Throne, his home.

All his life, King Viserys Targaryen, the Third of his Name, had been on the run; all beginning with that horrid night on Dragonstone. They had to flee and he could still remember it vividly in his dreams: the rain gushing down and flooding the streets, the pitch darkness and the black waters kicked up by heavy winds and smashing into the hull of the galley, the angry shouts of the garrison behind them and the cursing of sailors.

His mother's words, " _Protect her, Viserys. Protect your sister . . ."_

He had nightmares of that night and many times Viserys woke up soaking with sweat. His mother, Queen Rhaella Targaryen, had been weak when Daenerys was born. His mother who'd been the image of Targaryen beauty had become haggard with hollow cheeks, skin hanging from her bones and boasting a sickly pale tone. Viserys had wept and screamed and tried to remain, but instead of being at her side, he'd been dragged out the birthing chambers as the maester rushed around in panic.

It was shortly later, after the storm destroyed the royal fleet, that they needed to flee Dragonstone when the traitorous garrison tried to sell him and Dany to the Usurper. They were smuggled from the royal nursery by Ser Willem Darry to Braavos so they could later return to Westeros with fire and blood. But that wasn't to be. Their protector got the cough and after five years of declining health, the two royals were thrown out. House Targaryen, once so proud and powerful, was than forced to live on the charity of others. Viserys was the blood of the dragon, a descendent of Aegon the Conqueror. A king. He wasn't born to beg nor plea. He had the blood of Old Valyria inside him. He just needed an army . . .

And he now had one. Eight years he had been travelling around the Free Cities. They went from Braavos to Myr, Tyrosh and Qohor, Volantis and then Lys. They never stayed in one place for long. Neither he nor Daenerys could afford to when the Usurper had knives searching for them. _As long as I live, he can never sit the throne easily, not when there are those who will rise up for me_. He couldn't help but have doubts, however. If House Targaryen was loved and held support, surely the lords of Westeros would have helped him? Helped his sister when they were struggling for food after selling what little they had?

They hadn't always been poor, even after being exiled and kicked out the Braavosi house. They managed to retrieve some of their treasures taken from Dragonstone – his mother's crown being the most valuable. At first, the magisters and archons and merchant princes were pleased to have welcomed the last Targaryens into their homes and sit at their tables. A few times Viserys tried to set up a royal court for exiles like himself to unite House Targaryen with their supporters, but only a handful came and those that did left shortly thereafter for they were little more than rats after easy pickings. As time went on and the Usurper's hold on the Iron Throne grew stronger and more secure, the Essosi grew increasingly vocal in their refusal to hear his pleads and began closing their doors. With no more help, Viserys had been forced to sell what they had. It was mother's crown that had been the last to go. It had been his most treasured procession, the last keepsake of Queen Rhaella they had. It was a delicate silver crown crusted with amethysts that were the same shade as her eyes. She had kind eyes. Viserys had loathed to part with it. It was only when his stomach was empty and Dany was crying on the street, begging for food that he grudgingly parted with it. The trader, the cheat he was, knew how desperate they were and took advantage, paying them only a pittance. Viserys had been forced to accept though and cursed the man every night since.

Now Viserys Targaryen was closer to the Iron Throne and hoped the days of begging and living on the charity of strangers had ended. Under the roof of Magister Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos, he had been clothed and fed and treated like the king he was. He had servants to tend to his every need and even comely wrenches to warm his bed - things he never enjoyed before. He knew the magister was going to help him, Illyrio proclaimed as much, but not in the way he expected.

Not with the Blackfyres.

Viserys felt fire rise in his belly at the thought. On numerous occasions he had asked sellswords to join his banner. The Long Lances, the Second Sons, the Company of the Roses and the Windblown. But the Golden Company had been the one he'd chosen first. How could he not? They were the most renowned free company in the world and full of hardened killers – exiles like himself. At the time, it was thought the Blackfyres were long dead. Selling much of what he had and loaning money from some petty bankers, Viserys had organised a feast for the commanders of the Golden Company. They drank from treasured silverware on the finest of wines and foods, all organised in the hope of swaying them to his cause of retaking Westeros. Oh, they ate his food and drank his wine and demanded even more, but when Viserys had asked their commander, a certain Myles Toyne, they laughed at him. In front of potential allies, the captain-general called him a false dragon and a worthless child.

He could still remember their laughter, the insults they'd thrown his way and even the serving girls joined in. He wanted to kill them but said and did nothing. Having had their fill, the Golden Company left with full bellies. When the hall was empty, Viserys destroyed whatever he could get his hands on. He threw plates against the wall, he cursed and he screamed. He didn't know Daenerys had been hiding under the table, balling her eyes out.

Now they had declared for him, calling him His Grace, Viserys the Third of his Name, the true Lord of the Seven kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. _They called me king_.

They promised him the Iron Throne and Westeros, Robert Baratheon's head on a spike and many other things. They also asked for many things in return. They asked for lordships and honours, positions in court and coin. So much coin that Viserys had doubts whether he could pay it back. He'd do it though. If there was a chance of returning House Targaryen to the Iron Throne and home, he had the duty to do it. Even still, Viserys couldn't trust the army in his service. He couldn't. Not when a single Blackfyre still drew breath.

 _Especially that one . . ._

Viserys wasn't a fool. He had seen the way the boy had been looking at his sister. Oh, he acted courteous and noble, but Viserys knew he was anything but. His fears were realised when Illyrio put forth the offer of marriage. He didn't want Daenerys to be married to a Blackfyre and be soiled by a traitor's seed, but he was in no position to refuse either, not when Viserys was surrounded and being watched by the Summer Islander that followed the black dragon everywhere like a second shadow. They might profess loyalty, but they weren't loyal to him. They served the black dragonspawn.

But what choice did he have? The Golden Company may act the loyal servant and say their word is as good as gold, but Viserys clearly remembered how they laughed at him, taunted him and called him worthless. They were, however, the only army that was offering to help press House Targaryen's claim. Viserys couldn't afford to refuse them. They were the only chance for him to return home with his sister at his side. But could they win him the throne? The Golden Company had doubled its number from the last Viserys saw them and could rival the Iron Isles when it came to manpower, they were also battle-hardened killers who had destroyed some khal and routed his barbaric horde in open battle.

They wouldn't be his only army, King Viserys knew. There were many in Westeros who would join his banner. The Dornish were angry at the Usurper for the death of Elia's children. Many houses had lost land and power during the rebellion and would desire to see it returned. Viserys was more than happy to fulfil their desires. Darry and Mooton, Hightower and Tyrell and Tarly would desire him back. From what Magister Illyrio said, Lady Margaery Tyrell was a young maiden, flowered and comely, a daughter of the Reach who could call forth a hundred thousand men. If a rose wasn't a high enough lady for him, Illyrio pointed that Princess Arianne Martell was also unmarried and the heiress of Dorne. She was a bit too old for him, Viserys thought, she was _twenty-and-one_.

He was the same age as her, but Viserys remembered father telling him that younger wives were better, that they properly listened to their husbands and were more fertile. As much as His Grace knew he should be marrying inside the family to keep the blood of the dragon pure, Viserys was prepared to make sacrifices to get his throne. He knew that needed to happen since the beginning. Not only to remove Robert Baratheon but, sooner or later, he would need his own independent power base made of his own men and knights and loyal lords to fight the Golden Company and remove Aegon Blackfyre before the pretender removed him. Viserys had no doubt the Golden Company would kill him to put their little black dragon on the Iron Throne.

If allying with his ancestral enemies was needed to launch the invasion, Viserys would take it. He would smile and act the thankful king, but he would be cautious and careful. As soon as the black dragon made his move for control, Viserys would be ready for him.

 **...**

Daenerys Targaryen had never put much thought into who she would marry.

Before this point, she had always imagined she would marry her older brother to keep the Targaryen traditions alive and the bloodlines pure just as their parents had done, and their parents before them. Or she would be married off to a powerful Westerosi lord to ensure support for Viserys when he finally invaded and took back the Iron Throne.

Not once did Dany ever imagine she would marry a black dragon.

 _Targaryen and Blackfyre, a marriage to unite the branches. To turn bitter enemies into allies in their darkest hour_.

"A worthy story, don't you think?" Aegon had asked her when it was all decided. "Us two, the last scions of our houses and united against common enemies. That's not the best part, you know. You're a Daenerys, the name of the Targaryen princess Daemon Blackfyre loved from afar, the princess who helped bridge the divide between Dorne and the Iron Throne in a union that brought peace from where there had been war."

 _And open the realm for civil war_ , she could have replied. Daenerys Targaryen supposed it did make a fanciful tale, just like those stories she enjoyed reading. She couldn't trust him, however. Aegon had a face one could easily trust, and the most striking eyes Dany couldn't help but drown in. But that was when he was Griff Mopatis and not Aegon Blackfyre.

"You do look beautiful, princess," Septa Lemore told her as she got her gown ready and Illyrio's servants filled the tub with steaming hot water. Dany loved her bath hot. It made her feel clean. "You see the satin? Come straight from Yi Ti, much nicer than what comes west of Qarth." The septa stared at the dress for a moment. It was indeed a beautiful thing and crafted by the finest seamstresses in the Free Cities. Dany's smallclothes were all silk and the gown was ivory samite, decorated with Myrish lace and tiny dragon scales made of silvery satin. Her shoulders were exposed but touching the floor were long translucent sleeves.

It was a woman's grown, no doubt about that. Daenerys was a woman flowered, and no longer a little girl for her brother to shelter. She had bled and could now be married. _I am a dragon and dragons know no fear_. Even still, such a thing scared her.

"She does, doesn't she," said the young sixteen-year-old blonde named Larra who served as one of her personal handmaidens. "A true princess of House Targaryen. What do you think, Princess Daenerys?"

"It is beautiful," Dany replied, not really paying attention. She had only put it on once to ensure the dress fit and it did so perfectly. Dany herself was petite and delicately built. Viserys said she was as flat as a boy and not womanly at all.

"You should have a few gems as well," Doreah declared. "Amethyst. Finely cut ones to match your eyes. Yes, it'll look perfect. Just the sight will make him love you."

 _Love me . . ._ That was a nice thought. But would a dress be enough? Daenerys wanted a husband to love her as a husband was meant to love their wife. But she wasn't a foolish young girl and knew such things weren't certain to happen. Marriages were always political. Dany wondered whether Aegon would remain loyal or whether he'd stray. He was of bastard blood, after all. _He may come to love me . . ._

"I wouldn't have minded Targaryen colours," Lemore commented. "Red and black is striking, but a silver princess will do just as well, maybe better. When you first put it on, you looked like the Maiden herself. Sweet and innocent and oh so beautiful. Maybe more so."

Dany blushed. "Septa!"

The Dornishwoman grinned slyly. "I speak about only what my eyes saw."

Daenerys averted her gaze. Doreah pulled a rough cotton tunic over Dany's head and helped her into the steaming bath which had been scented with rich fragrant oils. The water was hot indeed, but Dany didn't flinch nor cry out. Instead she relaxed and felt at peace. Viserys told her dragons lived for the heat, that the fires inside them were hotter than the hottest of water. _Ours is the house of the dragon and fire is in our blood_.

"I disagree, lady septa," Larra rattled on as Lemore washed her long silver-gold hair and gently combed out the snags with the gentleness of a loving mother. "She may be a Targaryen, but it fits her. More so than black and red. Close your eyes, princess, and lift your feet so I can remove the callus. When this is done, you won't look like you've ever been on the run. You'll look a proper Targaryen. You'll have gold and jewels of all sorts. Amethysts to fit your eyes, silver your hair, is how a princess is supposed to look."

 _A princess_. Daenerys had never known what that felt like. Ever since she was little, she had been on the run from city to city with Viserys pulling at her arm. Maybe they spent near a year in one place, a few months in another, but they always needed to run from the knives of the Usurper. Closing her eyes, Dany imagined the way it must have been. The flight to Dragonstone and the moonlight shimmering on the ship's black sails. The Crown Prince valiantly battling the Usurper in the bloody waters on the Trident, fighting for the realm and family and his love. The sack of King's Landing by the Usurper's dogs where Princess Elia Martell of Dorne pleaded for mercy as Rhaegar's son and heir was ripped from her breasts and murdered before her eyes. Little Rhaenys who was found hiding under her father's bed and stabbed half a hundred times by the Lannisters. Then there was father who was opened by the Kingslayer's golden sword. The anointed king murdered by his own kingsguard.

Had there ever been a darker day?

It was Magister Illyrio who invited them inside his manse, where they ate his food and were pampered by his servants. Dany was only thirteen, but old enough to know such gifts were rarely without a price. She had wondered before and asked Viserys, who said that Magister Illyrio was supporting their claim. But now they knew the truth, and Dany couldn't help but be worried. The young man, this Aegon, was their enemy. Viserys told her so. He told her stories of the Blackfyre pretenders who attacked Westeros, trying to destroy House Targaryen and steal the Iron Throne. They were monsters. Villains. There was Daemon the Black Dragon who poisoned the hearts of many loyal lords with his false words. At his defeat, his family fled across the Narrow Sea and declared the true king a bastard born of wicked adultery. Then there was Maelys Blackfyre, who many thought was the last of the pretenders, a wicked monster of a man with two heads and a kinslayer of two. Illyrio Mopatis wasn't just a magister who had helped them, but he was the father of the Blackfyre she let herself get close to and come to like.

Dany felt like a fool.

It was her fault she let him get near with his kind words and pleasant smile. Despite everything and Viserys' warnings, Daenerys couldn't find it in herself to hate him. She even kept the portrait he did of her hidden inside her chambers. She tried but was unable to rid herself of it. Aegon didn't seem the one to want power. He had bent the knee to Viserys and treated her kindly. Surely that meant something. Even still, there was a voice in the back of her head telling her otherwise, that he would betray them like the Usurper and his ilk.

While conflicted on Aegon Blackfyre, she knew not to trust the magister. Illyrio Mopatis was a dealer in spices, gemstones, dragonbone and other, less savoury goods. He had friends all throughout the Free Cities, Westeros and even as far as Vaes Dothrak and the Jade Sea. It was said that no price was too great for him to sell a friend with a smile on his face. Daenerys listened to the talk in the streets but knew better than to question her brother, for his anger was a terrible thing when roused.

Dany opened her eyes and turned towards the balcony, the curtains wide-open and letting her look out directly into the bay where the waters looked so gentle. The square bricks of Pentos rose from the city and trading ships sailed in and out the narrow gap that was the only way to the Narrow Sea. Daenerys liked ships, loved sailing and watching the waves collide against the painted hulls. Once, when she was little, Dany wanted to be a sailor, but Viserys had twisted her arm and said she was a princess, nor a filthy sailor's wrench. For a moment, Dany forgot about the manse and her title. Instead she imagined herself in filthy rags, barefoot and breathless as she played in the dirt with the other children.

She wanted home.

Across the Narrow Sea was what her brother called home. The Sunset Kingdoms of Westeros. A land of castles and gentle sloping hills, flowered meadows and great rushing rivers, where towers of dark stone rose high as mountains and touched the sky. Where armoured knights rode into battle beneath the banners of their lords. She was told of great feasts and the Iron Throne itself, where the king sat as he presided over his sworn bannermen. The king, who should be a Targaryen with silver hair was instead a usurper with hair as black as his heart. The man who had slain her gallant brother Rhaegar and sent assassins across the Narrow Sea to murder children. People said Robert Baratheon was as strong as a bull and utterly fearless in battle, a man who loved nothing more than fighting. Under his evil banner was his horde of fallen knights and ambitious lords who had dishonoured their sworn vows to their king: the ruthless Lord Stannis who was loathed by smallfolk and noble alike, the cold-eyed Eddard Stark with his frozen heart from the savage north, the Lannister father and son, so rich and powerful and treacherous, and oath breakers of the worst sort. There were others as well, lords like Tully and Arryn, who proclaimed themselves loyal but had knifed House Targaryen in the back.

How could her brother hope to defeat such men? Little more than a month ago, they had nothing. No army, no supporters and only the clothes on their backs. Now they had the Golden Company, but they were questionable to say the least. It was reportedly a large army, but still meagre against the men and knights the lords of Westeros could call upon. Illyrio offered them support in coin but how could he compete against the wealth of Casterly Rock? How could the navies of the Triarchy dare challenge the Royal and Arbor Fleets in the sea? Three-hundred years ago, Aegon the Conqueror had dragons and took Westeros with fire and blood. Neither she nor Viserys had that.

Daenerys Targaryen didn't want to attack Westeros to return to a home she had never known. It would be foolish. Still, her brother had sworn a vow and lived to take back what was rightfully his. "Our people, our land, our home," Viserys told her every night. "We are the blood of the dragon and Westeros is ours by rights. Taken from us by treachery but ours still. One does not steal from a dragon. The dragon remembers. It always remembers. When we return, they'll burn."

Dany didn't want that. All she wanted was the house with the red door, the lemon tree growing outside her window, and the childhood she had never known.

When she was clean, they helped Dany out the water. Irri and Jhiqui towed her dry, Larra brushed her hair until it shone like molten silver and Doreah anointed her with rich perfumes from Lys. After all was done, they dressed her in garbs of deep plum silk Magister Illyrio had sent her. When they were sliding gilded sandals onto her feet, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," she said, somewhat cautious.

Walking through the beautifully carved door, Illyrio entered, grinning from ear to ear.

"Master," Larra said, curtsying. "We did as you requested. Does she look . . ."

"A princess," Illyrio declared. He walked inside the room with surprising delicacy for such a massive man. Beneath loose garments of silk jiggled rolls of fat. Gemstones glittered on every finger and the magister had oiled his forked yellow beard until it shone like real gold. In no way would have Daenerys believed he was the father of Aegon Blackfyre. They looked so different. One slim and beautiful and looked every inch a hero, the other large and disgusting with oily skin and a rank smell coming off him. Magister Illyrio bowed his head, showing a thin line of crooked yellow teeth where his son's own were straight and white. "She is a vision, wouldn't you agree? A true vision. How a Targaryen should look."

Alongside him were two others. The short one was the captain-general who Daenerys remembered sitting at the table in silence while his officers laughed at herself and Viserys. His hair was thin and black while his face was homely like that of a thug with a large hook nose, a crooked jaw and two massive ears. He was gaunt from a lifetime of selling his sword and was clean-shaven with not so much a hair on his chin. Standing next to him was someone Dany at first believed was a woman, until he laughed. He had pale lilac eyes like her brother and long white-gold hair. His lips were too full to be those of a man and his ears dripped with precious pearls and purple stones. Such features would have made a woman beautiful, but on a man, it was too queer and off-putting. While the Lyseni's smile was cutting, his face was unreadable.

"She looks like a girl dressed up," said the androgynous man who was a member of the Golden Company. "Like a doll. Clearly you spared no expense, magister. Nothing but the best for yourself and son."

"Any right-minded man would be enraptured," declared Ser Myles Toyne. "She is slightly skinny, but that is to be expected. She is a child who has been on the streets. Regardless, she is a beauty. That much must be said. The blood of Old Valyria, no doubt." He smiled at her.

Daenerys didn't return it. She found herself trembling.

Myles Blackheart looked her up and down with pale-green eyes. A bushy eyebrow raised. "You are a Targaryen. Stand up. Don't slouch. Straighten your back, yes, like that. You need to look like the blood of the dragon. The daughter of a king and the sister of the newest one. You need to look your very best. No longer will you be running from place to place and hiding from the Usurper's knives, nor will you return to the streets."

"Uh . . . th-thank you, m-my lord," Dany said meekly.

"I am no lord, princess. Only a humble servant," he bowed his head. "Your mother would surely be proud if she was here now."

"You knew my mother?" What a foolish thing to say. Her mother wouldn't have known him.

"I'm afraid not, but I'm sure she would be," Myles Toyne said with a warm smile. "You and your brother are not the only royalty I've had the fortune to meet. Me and my kin had a chance encounter with a Princess of Dorne who would have been queen should things have happened as they should."

"Dornish Princess?" Then her mind put it together. "Princess Elia Martell?"

"Indeed. Her retinue was attacked by the Kingswood Brotherhood. A fine bunch of outlaws and a colourful collection of rebels. Fear not, for none were hurt. Princess Elia was merely taken. My own blood led the group. Ser Simon Toyne who met swords with the famous Ser Barristan Selmy and fell. Before that, he disguised himself as a mystery knight and entered the tourney at Storm's End, unhorsed by your own brother Rhaegar. It was these daring feats that made him known throughout the realm. He did love being recognised and that caused him to become a reckless knight, and a dead one."

Daenerys heard only a little about the Kingswood Brotherhood. Her brother told her everything she knew, but he was young and hadn't been a victim of their raids. "Can you tell me about them? The others and what did they do to the princess?"

Myles Toyne chuckled and glanced at his man. The Lyseni bowed his head and left, shortly followed by Magister Illyrio and all his servants. The knight took a seat on a stool and crackled his knuckles. "There is much to say about them. Though I was merely a squire back then."

"Tell me all," Dany pleaded. She wanted to know more about them.

He chuckled. "There were a few. Wenda the White Fawn who was young and fair and branded highborn prisoners on the rear. Oswyn Longneck the Thrice-Hanged, the tallest man you'd ever see, and as the name said, the man that couldn't be hanged. Fletcher Dick with his longbow and Big Belly Ben with his hammer. Ulmer the Archer who put an arrow through the hand of the captain of the White Cloaks and then there was the Smiling Knight himself."

"I heard about him," said Dany, remembering the story she'd been told. "Viserys said he was mad, but deadly with a sword. He doesn't have a true name."

"He's a character, that man," the captain-general of the Golden Company said with a light bob of the head. "He was a man who had married his sword and his true love was battle. Both a cruel man and an honourable knight. Chivalrous to maidens and ladies and refused to lay a hand on either, but mad once his sword was unsheathed. He sought out battle for battle's sake and had never known fear. He even killed Ser Victor Tyrell, the cousin of Lord Mace after capturing Jeyne Swann."

"He died, didn't he?"

"Almost all of them died. Except a few. I'm one of them. Oh, we were popular back then. We stole from the lords, ransomed them and shared the coin with the smallfolk. Simon always said we needed their support and we had it for a long time. We gave to charity, to the septs and those in need. Many hated their lords and we helped poachers who had starving mouths back in their hovels. But it wasn't enough. When Ser Arthur Dayne approached your father, laws were put forth to aid the smallfolk, if just for a time. Princess Elia had been captured and that was a step too far, you see. We were found by the kingsguard and fought a battle the singers continue to tell. The Smiling Knight duelled Ser Jaime Lannister and then Ser Arthur Dayne, needing to replace his sword midway through when Dawn cut through his. It was an honourable bout, but a fierce one. The Smiling Knight fell, as did his head. By then, most of us were dead. The Fawn fled while Ser Simon was killed by Ser Barristan Selmy. I managed to run and hide, where I was ferried to Essos. I don't know what happened to the others."

Daenerys nodded and studied the man. He wore dark, sober colours and plate dented from use. He was a knight, but not the way Dany imagined a knight to look. The stories told her of knights in bright shining armour, atop beautiful stallions where they would rescue maidens from monsters and bandits. This man had been a bandit and looked a dark knight – the villains of the stories. This man had been an outlaw against her father, had kidnapped her brother's wife and was serving a Blackfyre under her brother. _Is there any darker fellowship?_

"Thank you for the story, ser," she said politely.

"Few ask to hear it," he said with a warm smile. He was an ugly man, but when he smiled the roughness of his face seemed to vanish. "You must think I'm a fool. That we're fools."

"Sorry?"

"You and the lad. I don't know about recently, but the magister was aware you sneaked out at night to be alone. Can't blame you. Pentos is a beauty with the coloured lanterns and the dancing fireflies."

She blushed despite herself. "I mean, I . . ."

"A girl sneaking out with a handsome young man. There is nothing to explain. You'll do well beside him and are fortunate. More so than many girls. You two are of similar age, Aegon has all his teeth and is a wise young man despite his . . . queer habits." Myles Toyne stood up from his stool. "I understand your fear. It is to be expected. But you are safe here, Princess Daenerys Stormborn. Remember that. No need to worry. We are allies, not enemies."

She didn't say anything. Myles smiled once more, bowed his head and took his leave. Daenerys stood there watching the door.

Later that night, both Daenerys and Viserys were summoned to another manse. The streets were pitch-black when they set out in Illyrio's elaborately carved palanquin. An escort of Unsullied followed and two servants went ahead to light the way, carrying ornate oil lanterns with panes of pale-orange glass, while half a dozen strong men hoisted the poles to their shoulders. It was stuffy behind the thick curtains. Dany wore the beautiful ivory dress so she might look her best. Viserys, too, looked like royalty. As he sat beside her, Viserys wore high riding boots polished to a high sheen, black slashed breeches lined with crimson, and on his chest was the flaming three-headed dragon of House Targaryen made of tiny rubies and red satin. Around his neck was a chain of black iron and hanging from his shoulders was a crimson cloak. Illyrio rode with them as well. Daenerys could smell the stench of pallid flesh through his heavy perfumes.

"Are you sure Pentos and the others will support us?" Viserys asked, sounding almost childish as his fingers toyed with the hilt of the gilded longsword that had been returned to him. "What makes you think they'll agree?"

The magister chuckled. "They'll listen to your words and heed them, Your Grace. The Golden Company commands the cities of Myr, Tyrosh and Lys, not to forget the Disputed Lands. They are in the Company's pockets and listen to what the captain-general says. No force can beat the Golden Company in the field. The Dothraki learned that."

Viserys snickered. "What was it – forty-thousand screamers fall against twenty-thousand? Just shows how useless the Dothraki are. They are meant to be good at killing, but apparently not. Who was it again who led them?"

"That would be Khal Drogo," Magister Illyrio said, twisting the pong of his beard. "The fiercest warrior in the world outwitted by a boy of fifteen namedays. Makes you wonder whether adults are truly wiser. But then again, the Dothraki are a race that lacks in intelligence."

"Agreed, magister," Viserys laughed. "Good thing they hadn't formed my army. I would dread to imagine what would have happened should that be the case. But of the three sisters . . ."

"You are in a powerful position, Your Grace," Illyrio promised him. "None of those cities have much in the way of martial traditions, tis true, but they will offer men and supplies and ships."

"I don't need much," her brother said dismissively. "I have the Company and can surely buy myself some more sellswords. Maybe some Unsullied. Then I will sweep the Seven Kingdoms. The realm will rise for its rightful king. Tyrell, Redwyne, Darry, Greyjoy, they have no more love for the usurper than I do. The Dornishmen burn to avenge Princess Elia and her children. The smallfolk will also stand with us. They'll kill the lords who sided against us, and cry for the return of their rightful king." He turned to Illyrio, anxious. "They do, don't they?"

"They are your people, Your Grace, and they love you well," Magister Illyrio said amiably. "In holdfasts all across the realm, both great and small, men lift secret toasts to your health while women sew dragon banners and hide them for the day of your return from across the water." He gave a shrug. "Or that is what my agents tell me, and I have a few across the Narrow Sea."

Dany had no agents. She had no way of knowing what anyone in Westeros was thinking, nor could she. But she mistrusted Illyrio's honeyed words. She mistrusted everything about Illyrio. Her brother was nodding eagerly, however. "I shall kill Robert Baratheon myself," he proclaimed, though he had never killed anyone. "As he slew my brother Rhaegar, I will slay him. Lannister too, for what the Kingslayer did to father."

"That would be most fitting," Illyrio said, and Dany saw the smallest hint of a smile playing around his full lips, though her brother didn't notice. "They say that Robert Baratheon greatly enjoyed the privileges of his station. He feasts and whores and has grown fat because of it. Unfit and unwell. A tragic ending for such a reputed warrior."

"A shame. I would have loved to fight him at his prime. But this will make it easy, I suppose. It would be fitting for a dragon is the only creature that deserves to sit the Iron Throne." When Illyrio agreed, her brother pulled back the curtains and stared off into the starlit sky. She knew he was off in his dreams, fighting the Battle of the Trident against the Usurper.

Eventually they reached their destination. It was a massive manse, though one that couldn't compare to Illyrio's own. It had nine square towers that sat beside the waters of the bay. The high brick walls were covered with ivy and had once belonged to Khal Drogo before his capture. After which, Illyrio had brought it for himself and was now serving to host their future allies.

The palanquin stopped outside the gate. The curtains were pulled back roughly by sellswords of the Golden Company in oiled black plate and mail. Magister Illyrio said who they were and why they came. The guardsman waved them through the iron gates, but not before seizing Viserys' sword.

Shooting a glance at her brother, Dany saw a feverish look his eyes. He had been insulted by many in Essos when he asked for their aid. He would be meeting them again and despite trying to look strong, Viserys looked as afraid as she felt. "How many are there?"

"Many and more," Illyrio's words were like honey. "Many important men will be at the feast tonight. Magisters and archons, merchant princes like myself and even captains of other free companies. A few Westerosi as well. The Golden Company and my son will be here, for they are the backbone of your campaign. There are many guards inside, Your Grace. We must protect our guests, yourself chief amongst them. No doubt the Usurper would pay well for you and your sister's head."

Viserys huffed. "Oh yes. He has tried, Illyrio, I promise you that. His hired knives followed us everywhere for I am the last _true_ dragon. As long as I breathe, he cannot sleep easily. No, he will not."

The palanquin was lowered and they stepped out with the help of servants. Inside the manse, the air was heavy with the scent of spices, sweet lemon and cinnamon. It was warm and stuffy, a contrast to the cold air outside. They were escorted across the entry hall, where a mosaic of coloured glass depicted the Doom of Valyria. Oil burned in black iron lanterns all along the hall and, beneath an arch of twining stone leaves, a eunuch sang of their coming. "Viserys of House Targaryen, the Third of his Name," he called in a high, sweet voice. "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. His sister, Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone. His honourable host, Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of the Free City of Pentos."

They moved past the eunuch into a pillared courtyard overgrown with ivy. Moonlight painted the leaves in shadows of bone and silver as guests drifted among them. Many were sellswords in silk and mail, torcs around their arms and necks to show their time in the Golden Company. Others were powerful individuals from the Free Cities: pale Lyseni, olive Myrmen and colourful Tyroshi with dyed hair and bright clothes. There was a red priest even fatter than Illyrio, bravos with puffy sleeves and an assortment of others – hairy men from Ibben, lords of the Summer Isles with skin black as ebony and cloaks of bright feathers. There were dark-skinned Dornishmen and broad Westerosi knights. Some looked rich, others poor, but everyone was distinct. Dany was thankful she wasn't the only woman there. There were plenty. Some were powerful in their own right; others were just the consorts of powerful men. There was a beautiful woman with golden-hair and laughing blue eyes holding the arm of a Magister of Lys, and conversing with a man wearing a surcoat of two dancing griffins. In the corner of the hall, was an older man, pasty forty and balding, dressed in wool and leather with a tunic of a black bear standing on its hind legs. He stared at her with poorly disguised lust. Dany made a reminder to stay away from him.

"There," Illyrio pointed to a man with a green beard talking to Myles Blackheart, "is the brother of the Archon of Tyrosh. No doubt the captain-general is warming him up to you, Your Grace. I would suggest you talk to them before the feast is done."

"I plan to, Illyrio. I am no fool." Without missing a beat, Viserys headed off to mingle with the crowds, leaving Daenerys alone. Dany turned around to see that Magister Illyrio had gone as well, proceeding towards a cluster of men in fine silk as a comely young girl served them drinks.

"I see you are alone, princess," came a voice. Daenerys jumped out her skin and turned in surprise. Aegon wore handsome black silk and woollens with no sign of a black dragon on his person. His face though, perhaps it was the Targaryen blood, but he reminded her of Viserys. A younger one with an easier smile and haunting eyes, long eyelashes and lips near as full as her own. He was prettier than her brother, beautiful even. The Blackfyre was a lithe youth, with smooth skin tanned dark from the sun and silver hair streaked with gold but stained blue from dye. "You do look very beautiful this night," he smiled, taking her hand gently and kissing the back of it like a knight from the stories. "It's good to see you have made it. I was afraid you'd be left at the manse."

With a gesture, he ordered a serving girl forward and took a cup of wine for himself and her.

"My kingly brother thought it would be wise to accompany him, Lord Aegon," she said, giving him the title of lord as a courtesy. "I am to be your betrothed and it would be considered most improper for me not to appear before your loyal followers."

He chuckled, eyes sparkling. "There is no need to act so formal around me, Princess Daenerys. I know it is expected, but we are to be married. I would rather we talk openly without hiding behind a wall of courtesies. We should freely speak our minds."

Aegon was smiling, though his face was more guarded than their previous times together. Dany almost felt sorry for exposing him, but she couldn't. Aegon had been lying to her about who he was. He was a _Blackfyre_. How could she not tell her brother they were being hosted by them? "I suppose you are right," she relented.

"I'm glad," he replied, looking somewhat relieved. "To speak truly, I do find all these pleasantries and formalities very exhausting."

Dany could relate. She had been with Viserys whenever he tried to get allies for Westeros. She had been paraded on many occasions and needed to learn the cultural practices of whatever cities they visited. Viserys would punish her if she failed. "I feel the very same, my lord."

"I am no lord, princess. Please don't call me such. Just call me by my name."

"If that is your wish, Aegon." She pressed her lips to the rim of the cup and took a sip of the wine. It was Arbor Gold, a fine sweet vintage. She had wine before, but never as fine nor sweet as this.

"You do seem . . . nervous. Mayhaps it's just the nerves, which I understand. There are many people here." Shooting Daenerys a dazzling smile, he presented her his hand. "As my betrothed, may my lady care to honour me this dance?" The way he said that, his accent and the playful smirk, nearly made Daenerys giggle, though her heartbeat increased as well. She accepted the offered hand. Dany wanted to dance, to join in with the festivities, to forget herself and whatever worries she had.

Taking his lead to the centre of the hall, Aegon pulled her close. His skin was impossibly warm and she could feel it through his clothes. _Maybe he is a dragon after all._ Dany avoided looking at him, instead focusing on those who danced around them. Daenerys had rarely danced before and compared to everyone else, she felt stilted. Thankfully their movement was slow and Aegon took the lead. She was surprised to note he was a competent dancer. Viserys was an awful one who lacked grace.

"You are a good dancer," she said shyly.

"You really think so? Thank you." He grinned and Dany felt her cheeks heat up. "Though to be honest, I was nervous asking you. This is my first-time dancing with a princess. I was scared I would make a fool of myself and, by extension, yourself." Aegon let out a silvery laugh that made Daenerys' heart flutter.

"Where did you learn, my lord?"

"My lord? I thought I told you not to call me that. You may call me Aegon. Or Griff, or even Egg if you prefer. Just as I hope I can call you Daenerys." His breath was hot against her cheek and smelled of lemon cakes and vanilla.

"Of course, Egg." She giggled softly at the word. It was so sweet and silly she couldn't help but laugh. "May I ask where you learned?"

"Septa Lemore," he said without skipping a beat. "She taught me much, but I was clumsy as an elephant dancing on its hind legs. It was Syrio Forel who actually got me where I am now. He beat me every time I missed a step in my Bravo lessons. I needed to be perfect to avoid another strike and by the end I was little more than a collection of bruises."

"A bravo taught you to dance?"

"Water dance, though the skills can be translated to other things."

Aegon Blackfyre smiled warmly. His eyes were hauntingly dark and conveyed a sense of gentleness. _Would it truly be so bad to marry him?_

"Well, what if I teach you some time? Just you and me alone as I teach you the waltz?"

"The waltz?"

"The name of a dance. Granted, I may not be the best, undoubtedly unworthy of a princess, but we can learn together. That may be fun, or frustrating."

Dany laughed. "I wouldn't mind that . . ." but then she saw her brother looking at her. Viserys was smiling but it never quite reached his eyes. She swallowed. "I-I'm enjoying this, b-but . . ."

"But nothing. If you're enjoying this, there's no reason to stop. Here."

His arms tightened around her as the song changed to something slower, gentle, soothing. Giddy, Dany let the music take over and lost herself in the steps; the sound of flutes and pipes, the silver harp and the slow beat of the drum. She forgot about Aegon being a Blackfyre, her brother and the dancers around them. It felt like they were the only two in the hall. Aegon leaned in close. On his bottom lip, Daenerys noticed some sugar that caught the light. For whatever reason, Dany couldn't quite look away.

"Daenerys, there is something I want to tell you. Something few others know about."

Dany felt her heart beat faster and looked up, directly into his eyes. Before she could open her mouth and ask what it was, there was a sharp clap and the music stopped abruptly.

Everyone turned around to see Magister Illyrio grinning from ear to ear and showing the world his crooked yellow teeth. "I trust my treasured guests have enjoyed the night so far," he called in a loud, clear voice. "Soon we'll see the main event, but first, I would like to congratulate my son who is now betrothed to Princess Daenerys of House Targaryen and will soon take her to wife." That caused some excited sounds from the guests and more than a few rabid jests about riding the dragon. "This is a grand achievement for my house, if I'm allowed to be most humble. Once I had been a simple beggar living on the street and surviving with barely a few coppers to feed myself, but now I have a son soon to marry royalty." He laughed softly, clearly proud of himself. "As a mark of celebration for such a betrothal, I will provide my newly made good-son and daughter a treasured gift from the lands of Asshai."

At his command, Magister Illyrio of Pentos ordered four burly men to enter the room, bearing between them a massive chest of finely carved cedar wood bound in heavy bronze. Taking her arm, Aegon led Daenerys forward and Viserys followed. One of the slaves opened the lid. Inside were fine velvet blankets and damasks. Nice looking ones that would certainly be pricey but Viserys rolled his eyes in disappointment and asked whether this was a kingly gift. Grinning, Illyrio threw off the blankets to reveal four large eggs, nestled in the soft cloth.

She gasped.

They were the four most beautiful things she had ever seen. Each one was completely different from the others, patterned in colours so vivid that Dany half expected them to be jewels made of glass or delicate enamel. They were large enough to need both hands to hold them. Not asking for permission, Daenerys stepped forward and lifted one up delicately for closer inspection. The surface of the shell was covered with tiny scales that shimmered like polished jewels. One egg was deep green, covered with flecks of burnished bronze. Another was pale cream streaked with gold, while another was black as midnight yet swirled with scarlet. The last one was what Aegon was staring at intensely, like he could hatch it with merely his eyes. That was darkest of the four, black yet alive with dark purple ripples that were so shadowy it took a moment to realise the colour. That one clearly had taken Aegon's interest and he took it gently in his hands, peering closely.

"Cold," was all he said.

"Dragon eggs . . . you have dragon eggs?" Viserys asked, still staring. "Four dragon eggs?" He didn't pick one up, instead gently ran his fingers against the white and gold one.

"The pride of House Targaryen and the Valyrians," Illyrio nodded with pride in his voice. "It seemed a worthy gift, for ones such as yourselves."

"Where did you get them," Dany asked, her voice hushed and full of wonder.

"From the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai," Illyrio said, and then Dany remembered he had said that already and felt foolish. "It takes ships a year to get there and another to come back. Dragon eggs can be brought there from ages past. Three seemed fitting to give House Targaryen, but due the distance, I made sure to buy more." He chuckled. "I thought to give them to you, as a sign of friendship, a bride price and a tool to buy yourselves a greater army."

"It is a magnificent gift, father," Aegon declared, voice breaking suddenly. He blushed.

Viserys still had his hand on the egg and was grinning. Then he laughed. "Dragon eggs . . . the pride of my ancestors. We can use these for an army. Ships."

"We have an army," Dany said, unsure what Viserys meant.

"We can buy _ourselves_ an army, sweet sister," her brother said softly, still staring at the egg and brushing the tiny scales covering it. "Men, ships. We can get Westeros."

"You can, Your Grace," Illyrio told him, narrow pig eyes turning to each of the eggs in turn before ending at the two in the chest. "One dragon egg can buy a squadron of galleys. Two can buy an army, and three can ensure one remains wealthy till the end of their days. Four though . . . well . . ."

"Will be enough," Viserys declared. "We'll use these, Illyrio. I will promise you that. Ships and men and the Golden Company's loyalty." He turned to Aegon, a flicker going across his face. "They could be sold or used to sway powerful houses. House Targaryen gave trusted lords dragon eggs as rewards."

"Like Aegon the Unworthy," her betrothed said without hesitation. "Didn't he give a dragon egg to a lord so he could bed both his two daughters?" Then his eyes flickered to her and looked away, abashed. Dany didn't understand why. She was a maiden, but no innocent. She knew what men did with women.

Viserys made a face. "I am no Unworthy."

"I never said you were, Your Grace," the black dragon said with a smile that could be conceived as sarcastic. "Though I do wonder if it would be possible to hatch them. Maybe show them to Lyra. Tis a shame she's not here."

"She can hatch them?" Dany asked, perking up. "Really?"

"It's theoretically possible," Aegon shrugged.

 _What does he mean? Does that mean it is?_

"Many times our ancestors had tried, and many times they failed," Viserys said, while his tone was suspicious, there was a look in his eye that meant he lived to see the idea of having four living dragons.

"And this would be her moment to say they're not her," Aegon muttered beneath his breath. "I suppose we can try to hatch them. What's the worst that could go wrong other than burning alive?"

Illyrio laughed once again and the guests pressed closer for a better look. After some time talking amongst themselves, they returned the eggs to the crate that was carried out the room. With the eggs away from her, Dany felt something was missing, like there was a hole where a part of her used to be. "Now the gifts are out the way, once more for the main event!" Everyone turned back to face Magister Illyrio. "Meet the Great Khal himself. Khal Drogo!"

The door opened and a man was dragged out. He was covered in bandages and scars and was missing half an arm. His limbs were bound with golden chains and two sellswords pushed him forward with the poles of their spears. The man was tall, standing a taller than even the tallest man in the room, but he shuffled awkwardly. He was younger than she had thought, no older than thirty. His skin was the colour of polished copper and he had a thick mustachio. His head, however, was bald as an egg.

The guests laughed and taunted. Dany turned to Aegon Blackfyre who looked at the man with a cold smirk. The rumours said it had been Aegon himself who urged the Golden Company to go out against the Dothraki in the open field. They said he was a reckless youth, both great and mad, that used foreign princesses for his pleasure, set a river on fire and had his mage perform dark magic. She didn't know what was true, but Dany knew he beat the greatest warrior on the Dothraki Sea with an army of sellswords, something thought impossible.

"This him?" she asked, her eyes not unable to leave the man who had once been khal.

"The one and only," the black dragon declared. "When the Dothraki lose a battle, they need to shave off their braids in disgrace so the world will know their shame."

"Must have been long."

"Down to his ankles, they claim, though not that far in truth. Before that fateful day he had never lost a battle. They called him Aegon the Dragonlord come again."

Daenerys turned to the prisoner whose face was burnt and bruised. He was staring at her with eyes as cold and dark as onyx. Even as bound as he was, he frightened her, yet . . . she couldn't help but feel something. Pity perhaps? "What's to happen to him?"

"He's a trophy and perhaps he'll serve a greater purpose in due time, but until then, let's enjoy this night."

Dany nodded. "B-before he came in . . . what were you going to tell me?"

The Blackfyre, still looking at Khal Drogo, twitched. He turned to her, perplexed. "It was nothing, my lady. Nothing at all."

* * *

A/N: This chapter took longer than expected, but here is the first Interlude chapter and should hopefully provide some insight into the minds of both Targaryens, though mostly Daenerys. As can be expected, there is mistrust between both them towards Aegon and Illyrio. Mostly from Viserys for justifiable reasons considering he's the one thing separating the Blackfyres from taking the Iron Throne with this recent arrangement, but he's in no position to refuse either, so he's very much between a rock and a hard place. Daenerys, on the other hand, is still a naive thirteen year old girl who's not gone through the experience which had shaped her so she's much more trusting of Aegon thanks to the halo effect and asoiaf being a world that strongly believes attractiveness equals goodness. I hoped I managed to convey those things across.

As I always say, I hoped you've enjoyed this chapter and thank you to those who've reviewed, favourited and followed. I'd like to hear any feedback. Until next time.

Comments:

Guest: There are four eggs because I need more for what I have planned later in the story.

Tartarus0884: Viserys is dead and he knows the danger. There are many opportunities for Viserys to die and some are more easily explained like during a battle, which would be easy if the GC made Viserys the target of every archer in the field. Or Illyrio could kill him in Essos than blame it on Robert's assassins.

Fritosaurio: Cheers. I always thought Aegon and Daenerys would be an interesting pairing, more so if the Blackfyre theory was true.

Najex: Thanks for the review. It'll take a while, but hopefully they can get a genuine relationship between them. He was trying to seduce her to his side and what's a better location than a dance? I didn't want to turn Viserys into the simple villain he is usually depicted as and for his worries to have grounding, which they certainly do. Afraid to say that there might be no peace between them for Viserys fears a Blackfyre looming over him and Illyrio and the Golden Company want Aegon sitting the Iron Throne.

Keldor: It might have been pretty jarring, but I wouldn't put it past him as it as an emotional response. Thank you for the review.

Veredis: I'm happy you enjoyed Viserys. I wanted to make Viserys more rational for many just have him evil and killed off early. While not a nice person, I am sympathetic for what he's been through.

Guest (02): I do plan for them to hatch. Dragons in asoiaf don't seem to be either male or female for they seem to be hermaphrodites. Instead of Drogon, I do plan on Daenerys naming it after her mother.

osterreicher97: I feel bad for Viserys but he is a threat and gone too far to be any use to the Blackfyre side. We don't know what he tried in canon besides asking (or begging) for help from powerful Essosi nobles, so we have no knowledge on what he tried to build up support so I tried to make him more proactive here. He could have done better as a sellsword, but that comes at the risk of death and what would happen to Daenerys should such a thing happen. At best he could have hoped a Targaryen loyalist would had taken him in as a squire but never did so. Perhaps he was too suspicious for such a thing. I don't think the Westerosi would in general care for Viserys abusing Daenerys. Even the most "chivalrous" knights looked the other way when Rhaella was being raped or when Joffrey ordered Sansa to be beaten. They won't look at him fondly, but nor would they step in to stop it. While many Westerosi lords won't care if Viserys is a poor king provided they benefit, Aegon and Daenerys would look more desirable as overlords.

coldblue2015: Thank you for the review. I don't believe Targaryen madness is a thing. I always took it as mental health problems having only worsened due to the toxicity of the royal court and yesmen encouraging such thoughts. Viserys can be perfectly sane and would still mentally suffer due to what happened to him and I wanted to help capture that. Daenerys is certainly unsure about Aegon and distrusts Illyrio, but an alliance gives them the greatest advantage rather than fighting against each other. The prize of dragons will help sweeten the deal indeed. With the dragons, a rider can only bind one dragon so the others will go to other riders.

VladImpaler: Cheers. There will be an interlude with the small council later, so you'll see how they'll act. Robert will act strongly to all his fears becoming true and greater than a Dothraki horde. When Dany first touched the eggs, they felt cold to her to. I would say that it's closer to Aegon being unable to hatch the dragons himself, so Dany's needed for that task. The thing Aegon was nearly about to tell Dany is meant to be ambiguous so you can fill that in for yourself.


	19. Chapter 17: Acknowledgement

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 17: Acknowledgement**

* * *

I let my eyes linger on the parchments Dalabhar had most kindly prepared for me, double than triple checking the figures.

The ball was a success. People danced, people sang and most, I assume, had a good time. We made a few new allies and while Viserys' speech was nothing to write home about, it had nudged a few prominent Essosi into supporting the Targaryen cause. At least he thought it was down to himself. If Maar was to be believed, an increasingly number wanted the Golden Company to sod off across the Narrow Sea. No doubt the change of opinions was due to extra tribute levied to rebuild our forces. _Those greedy bastards_.

Despite all the gold flowing into the Company's chests, our financial forecasts weren't looking good. With all the reforms, the army had nearly bankrupted itself and that was no thanks to Illyrio tightening his wallet. Yet as I looked at the incomes, I couldn't be too displeased. If I hadn't been planning to invade an empire and leaving nothing to chance, I would be a very rich young man indeed.

Pentos was now in the early stages of an agricultural revolution. After many hurdles, the seed drills and threshers were proving themselves financially successful and had improved the quantity of grain. Not only had Illyrio been selling my inventions (if without my consent), he'd also been aggressively buying up land. The Flatlands around Pentos were, like the Disputed Lands, extremely fertile and had proven the largest market. Where war had discouraged investment in the Disputed Lands, the peace allowed it to flourish. Long abandoned settlements were being repopulated and the fields were once again being properly tended. Trade flourished and it was Westeros that got the short end of the stick thanks to the Triarchy becoming increasingly self-sufficiency and needing to import less grain despite recent waves of immigration.

That wasn't the only expanding market. We had increased the number of printing presses and business involving them were steadily increasing after much refinement. The Essosi market was much greater than Westeros with its wide range of libraries, book sellers and universities, but even with their business we were barely making an actual profit thanks to the time and resources sank into creating those bloody things. I wasn't foolish enough to expect to be swimming in gold and even expected a loss for some time. Was sadly proven correct on both accounts. Illyrio had complained more than his fair share, but I knew the true value was the speed they could be used to create propaganda. While Stannis and others would need maesters to write messages by hand, we should easily mass produce information without near as much human error.

The benefits of both would serve a great help with the Golden Company's future operations in Westeros which I had titled Operation Kairos. Said future campaign required phenomenal amounts of resources to keep the Company at full capacity and properly supplied. One should never ignore logistics and I was fast gaining sympathy for Homeless Harry Strickland. At least food wasn't much of a problem. Pentos and the Triarchy had a vast surplus of grain ready for the war effort. Unlike Westeros that would suffer from farms being destroyed, we should hold the logistical advantage provided we control the Narrow Sea. _The battle of wheat is just as important, if not more so, than those at the front_. Not only would grain supply the army, it could also be used to sway lords to our side and build-up support among the smallfolk.

It wasn't easy sailing and we were facing a few problems within the army thanks to rapid expansion. Many men were green as summer grass and plenty of the newly appointed officers were inexperienced. That wasn't helped by the multi-ethnic nature of the organisation making it harder for the men to operate as a cohesive unit without rising tensions between them. I only hoped fighting the Dothraki had separated the wheat from the chaff. _Hopefully these problems can be ironed out when we finally land_.

Clicking my tongue, I shuffled the papers around and ran a hand through my hair. Looking up, I eyed Lyra leaning on the back of her chair, using a knife to dig the gunk beneath her fingernails. The fact she was humming loudly made it certain she was trying to annoy me on purpose. "Can you stop that?"

She looked up, her neatly trimmed eyebrows furrowing. "Pray forgive me, but I do find watching you read awfully dull. Why am I even here?"

"You have plenty of expenses." I straightened the parchment listing the budget for Lyra's studies, an interesting and head scratching assortment of things she claimed were absolutely required. "A high-quality rug imported from Myr?"

"The rug in my cell had a horrible stain when the frog exploded."

 _What mad science are you doing in there?_ I had no desire to press the issue. Lyra had moved her operations to Illyrio's dungeons so no one would be troubled by Khal Drogo's screams. Despite growing desensitised by much of what was going on around me, I didn't want to know. Instead, I continued like nothing was amiss. "Buying yourself a library's worth of books about dark magic. Some imported from Asshai and others from the Black Walls of Volantis, including the Jade Compendium and the Grimoire of Starry Wisdom."

"All are required," she said with a tired sigh. "Aegon, you of all people should know how rare magic is and books about the subject are just as much. The Red Temple holds many in its vaults, available only to those who swear before the Red God. Some of the coin was spent bribing a corrupt red priest so he would steal them for me. Books from Asshai are reputedly the best but are costly. The Black Walls are only thanks to Vaquo. His aunt was quite the mystic and tried hatching herself some dragons eggs alongside some Myrish wizards. Seeing as I don't see dragons flying around, I would conclude she failed, but she did keep records."

"The Church of Starry Wisdom?" I asked cautiously. _Isn't that Lovecraft or something?_

"The church does carry with it a sinister reputation around the world and is a secretive group, but they do hold some good leads and seem to know what they are talking about even if I disagree about worshipping some black stone falling from the sky."

"Have you learned anything useful?"

"A little. After the Freehold collapsed much knowledge about dragons was lost. Don't know about Westeros, but I heard Baelor the Blessed wasn't a fan of the high arts."

"He burnt any books he believed held dark origins," I grunted. "Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: their Unnatural History by Septon Barth was mostly destroyed, though some fragments remain here and there. I know little of the contents myself, but it examined the origins of dragons and how they come to be controlled by the Freehold. Speculation includes bloodmages using wyverns as stock to create dragons and that they're neither male nor female, but changeable as flame."

"Why tempt me so with talk of this book?" Lyra pouted. "I have some foundation, I like to believe, but seeing as dragons are long since dead, I do believe you will only to end in failure."

"Is this your latest attempt to dissuade me?" She had tried a few times and even threatened to leave before I convinced her about the potential of dragons bringing back magic to the world.

"I tried and failed, and you are remarkably stubborn. I wash my hands of dissuading you, though I will enjoy the look on your face when the eggs will remain eggs."

 _And I'll enjoy the look on your face when they hatch_. I was safe from assuming she would purposely fail. Lyra's pride would ensure she wouldn't self-sabotage. "You hope they remain as such?"

"A part of me does," she admitted, "but another part of me does desire to gaze upon them. I hate dragons as much as I am intrigued by them. They were the beasts that destroyed my ancestors land, but should I follow that same logic, I would say horses should all be eradicated because Dothraki mount them."

"It was the Freehold that destroyed the Rhoynar. They commanded the dragons, just as they commanded horses and elephants against Garlan the Great. Dragons were merely tools controlled by their masters."

"Indeed." She paused and leaned back into her chair, fiddling with her knife. "Pray forgive me, but . . ." She took a breath and looked at me with an expression I didn't think she was capable of – uncertainty. "Dragons produce magic, if what you claim is true, that they concentrate it akin to anchors but far greater. You claim magic will grow stronger at the birth of dragons and that's why I'm doing it. Yet . . . I do feel like I'm betraying my ancestors and everything they stood for. When I die and stand in the Palace of Paradise with the Mother Rhoyne looking upon me, will she and all her court gaze at me fondly after I bring back the monsters that hurt her?"

"Armies razed countless cities and holdings and will continue to do so far into the future. Dragons aren't inherently good nor evil. They are only animals. You know I don't desire Essos. When all is done and your service with me is at its end, you may return to the Rhoyne with the support of a thankful ruler. Rebuild the Rhoynish princedoms if that is your desire. Use magic, and hell, use dragons to push the Volantenes and Qohor and Pentoshi out. Picking at old wounds won't do anything."

Lyra snorted a laugh. "You and your pretty little speeches. I don't want them hatched, but nor am I too blind to see the advantages for myself." She took in a deep breath, producing a sipping sound. "I agreed to help you hatch some monsters and I want to see if Vaquo's aunt is a fraud or as wise as he claims she is."

 _There are four eggs in need of hatching, and should they do so, we have three people that could hope to ride them: Viserys, a naïve child and myself_. What could possibly go wrong?

 **...**

After filling out the paperwork, I was called upon for my lessons with Haldon. While subjects like maths had diminished with importance, history and anything relating to politics were at the forefront now.

Entering, I found Daenerys sitting at the table. She smiled shyly. My tutor was dressed in a plain grey tunic, woollen trousers and sandals. His grey hair was tied back in a bun that emphasised the harsh lines of his face. Haldon did have the face of a teacher unwilling to take any lip from his students. "I see you've finally made it, Aegon. Fortunate you cared to join us."

"Someone needs to make sure you don't misinform the princess," was my glib reply. "Not everyone can be half a maester."

Daenerys failed to repress a laugh and Haldon eyed me with a look that said he was going to be particularly harsh on me this afternoon, just as I had hoped. I needed the challenge.

"Why are you only half of a maester?" Dany asked, intrigued. "I am aware you are not a full maester. But why only half?"

"Well, Princess Daenerys, if you must know, I decided to leave the Citadel in my youth. Sometimes when I'm with the lad I do question whether I made a foolish mistake, but that grave's been dug. Anyone can join the Citadel, be they highborn or low, rich or poor. Upon completing your chain, you must swear a maester's vow and put aside your past life. You swear vows to hold no lands nor titles, to serve the Citadel and remain celibate."

"Similar oaths to that of the Night's Watch and Kingsguard, or that of a septon," I commented. _And just like them, maesters tend to break those oaths quite frequently_.

"Correct. I went there because I desired to learn, because I desired to become a knight of the mind. Tis a shame I hadn't been fully aware what being a maester involved. I was a rebellious youth, you see. When one becomes a maester, you wear the chain around the neck. A collar to remind you of the realm you serve. I saw it as little more than slavery, and the chains proved that. Oh, they might be chains of all metal known to man, be it black iron, bronze, yellow gold or iron, but they are chains still. I never desired to be enslaved so I left and found my skills were very much in demand. Eventually I found myself in the Golden Company and then teaching Aegon."

"You must have fallen quite far to be teaching me," I said with false sympathy and laid a hand across my heart. Haldon rolled his eyes, then I said, "Mayhaps my eyes are getting worse, but I don't see Viserys Targaryen with us."

"King Viserys is with Magister Illyrio," Haldon informed me mildly. "They are both in his study, making plans for potential marriage alliances to Westerosi houses. Your father offered a few suggestions for Essosi wives, those with Valyrian features from Lys and Volantis, but your future good-brother was adamant to have a Westerosi wife."

I chuckled. "And who has His Grace selected for such an honour?"

"King Viserys desires to court Lady Margaery Tyrell, or the Princess Arianne Martell for fifty thousand Dornish spears."

 _Dorne doesn't have fifty thousand spears_. I would put the numbers much lower, maybe twenty to thirty instead. Still a lot, mind you, and greater than what the Company processed, but it wasn't much compared to the other provinces that formed the Seven Kingdoms. If I was Viserys, I would have gone with the Reach but because I wasn't him, I didn't desire such a decision. Far from it. I needed to ensure he didn't marry someone too powerful. Viserys couldn't be given a power base independent from ours. "Then let's hope it'll be a fruitful and prosperous marriage. We need all the help we can get against the Usurper."

"Indeed." He slapped his cane on the table, making us flinch. "Enough talk. This is going to be a long day and I'd rather not waste time."

The lessons began, as always, with languages. Daenerys knew all the Essosi dialects fluently and was quick to prove herself superior to myself. I expected nothing less. She had been on the run throughout the Free Cities so it would have been strange for her to not be skilled with tongues. While she aced it, I was struggling so Dany did assist with the ones I was less confident about. Afterwards we moved to mathematics which Dany was having trouble with, as were ninety-nine percent of Westeros apparently. From what it seemed, anything more advanced than adding and subtraction was viewed as a form of dark magic that was used to summon Lovecraftian horrors for how looked down upon it was. No wonder Littlefinger could run rampart for so long thanks to the royal court being unable or unwilling to even examine his accounts. Perhaps because of this, my lessons were not much above standard secondary school level, so I allowed myself to kick back and relax. After some exercises, we moved onto geometry where we learned the magic that came in the form of circles and squares and other shapes. While more complicated than numbers, it was still easier than languages. It was all clearly new to Daenerys so she needed aid with the more advanced stuff. Repaying the minor debt, I helped her and explained how everything worked.

Moving away from maths and shapes, Haldon talked to us about moral and political philosophy which was taught throughout Essos to install civic virtue in their young elite. It was something I was learning more of and Haldon opened up the lesson with, "Can either of you tell me why they refer to kings as shepherds?"

To which my snide answer was, "Because they both lead herds of unruly bleating sheep of limited intellect?"

Haldon gave me a pointed look. "How droll. Interesting observation but no."

Then he went on a monologue on how kings are meant to rule. How they must tend to their herds and how a monarch was meant to achieve that. To aid us, Haldon provided both me and Daenerys treatises on what a ruler should inspire to be, how they should rule and conduct themselves. Most were for Essosi politicians but said skills could easily translate to feudal systems. I enjoyed the talks of politics with Haldon and we perhaps spent too much debating to the exclusion of Daenerys who took it as a slight until I begged forgiveness which she accepted with a gracious smile.

When we finally got to Westerosi history, Daenerys was growing restless. Not that I could blame her, we had been working nonstop for the last few hours. Even I was beginning to grow restive. It didn't help that the period Haldon decided was King Aerys the Second's reign. Daenerys had been delighted but I doubted it would end well.

"The last Targaryen king of the Seven Kingdoms ascended the Iron Throne upon the death of his father, King Jaehaerys Targaryen the Second of his Name, after little more than three years of rule," the Halfmaester began. "The newly crowned king was well loved during his early years. Reputed to be generous, he had fought gallantly in the Stepstones during the War of the Ninepenny kings."

"He was a warrior," Dany said happily. "Viserys told me stories of our father's skill in arms. That he was reputed throughout the realm and near as good as Ser Arthur Dayne or Ser Barristan Selmy in his prime. Pray, do tell me that he was as good a king as he was a knight, as chivalrous as he was noble."

Haldon looked at her for a moment than took a breath. "Your father, princess, was not a good king."

Her smile turned upside down. "What?"

"King Aerys was not the most diligent of princes, nor the wisest. He did have undeniable charm and wit that won him many friends during his time at court and made even more in the Stepstones. There he gained his closest friends in the newly lorded Ser Steffon Baratheon, a young Tywin Lannister, and many others. But while he was well liked, your father proved himself to be vain, proud and changeable. Those traits made him easy prey for flatters and lickspittles."

"Surely they were trying to deceive my father for their own ends. Surely?"

"I think that's why he means by flatters and lickspittles," I commented drily under my breath.

"Aegon is correct. Flatters can be found in every court in the known world," Haldon told her. "But your kingly father's court had many and more. The lords and advisers surrounding him were men who would agree with His Grace on every decree no matter how obscene. Still, the late king had no lack of ambition. Upon his coronation, your father declared he wished to be the greatest king in the history of the Seven Kingdoms and upon hearing that, many encouraged his actions, guessing he might one day be remembered as Aerys the Wise or Aerys the Great."

 _And instead became a mad tyrant_. Daenerys remained silent, only glaring at the Halfmaester with an expression like stone.

"While his late father's court was made of older men, seasoned and knowledgeable and many who had served during the reign of King Aegon the Fifth, Aerys dismissed them all, replacing them with lords of his own generation, close friends and heirs of powerful houses. He retired the aged and cautious Lord Hand Edgar Sloane and named in his place Ser Tywin Lannister, the heir of Casterly Rock. At only twenty years of age, Ser Tywin was the youngest Hand in the history of the Seven Kingdoms and many maesters say that was the wisest decision your father had ever made."

"But Lord Tywin betrayed my father," Daenerys said defensively. "He was a traitor."

"He did indeed, princess. But before that, he had served faithfully for all his years as Hand of the King. The two of them had been close friends. Both served as royal pages and, with Lord Steffon Baratheon, the three became inseparable. When your father was to be knighted, it was Ser Tywin who had received the honour. When he was king, Aerys was lively and active in his early years. He loved music, dancing and masked balls. It was seen by many to be a cultural renaissance in Westeros. Painters and artisans were brought in from around the world and were granted generous patronages from the king and his courtiers. He wanted his court to be one of art and beauty, to be a king of culture and renown. That wasn't all he'd done, for His Grace had been full of grand schemes. Not long after he was crowned, King Aerys announced his intent to conquer the Stepstones and make them a part of the realm. Later he intended to the expand the realm by building a new Wall a hundred leagues north the existing one and claiming all the lands between. When offended by the stink of King's Landing, he spoke of building a white city entirely of marble on the south bank of the Blackwater Rush. After a dispute with the Iron Bank of Braavo regarding money borrowed by his father, King Aerys announced he would build the largest war fleet in the history of the world to bring the Titan of Braavos to its knees. Another and perhaps most foolish, was to build canals in Dorne by digging them beneath the mountains to make the Dornish deserts bloom."

 _Sounds like the kind of schemes an Insert would do_ , I thought uncharitably.

"Did any of these actually come to be?" Dany asked, her voice quiet and plastered across her comely face was the expression of one's entire world view beginning to fall apart in slow motion.

"None of them came to be, princess," Haldon said with a sympathetic look. "Your father was a man of great ambitions, but he lacked the motivation to see them through. Those claims made him well loved whenever he said them, no doubt by his court encouraging such actions with endless praise. Yet the ideas never lasted long. The second Wall would be impractical and costly. Conquering the Stepstones would invite war with Essos. Lord Tywin Lannister paid back the Iron Bank with his own coin from Casterly Rock. Your father grew bored of such ideas once he made plans to put them to work. Yet still, the Seven Kingdoms prospered."

"I . . . I don't want to hear anymore," Daenerys declared, sounding stronger but her voice hitched. "My father was a good man. A talented king who was betrayed by those he came to trust."

"Your father was not a good man, princess," Haldon told her. "There is a reason he was called the Mad King. Has no one ever told you?"

"He was called the Mad King by the Usurper and his dogs. They called him the Mad King to justify their actions and destroy father's reputation. It had not worked. The smallfolk love him."

She wasn't completely wrong with that. Some smallfolk may indeed be loyal to Mad King Aerys. Though I would put that down more to the fact they weren't victims of the tyrant's actions and when the smallfolk were believing that, the War of the Five Kings was in full force. With all the destruction, no doubt they were looking back to the more-or-less stable reign of the last Targaryen king with nostalgia goggles.

"If my father had done wrong . . . it isn't his fault. It's the fault of his advisers. They must have lied to him and done wrong by him in some way. Father trusted them but they grew too ambitious . . . power corrupted them—"

"Power doesn't corrupt. Power reveals. When you finally get enough power to do what you always wanted to do, you will experiment until you reach the limits of what you are capable of. When people say power corrupts, that is inaccurate for people are always corrupt and it simply gives them the opportunity to indulge in their fantasies, be they mild or extreme. It is not a corrupting force for how people use power depends on their own values."

"Or, in another way, people corrupt power," was my response.

"Princess Daenerys Targaryen. I am a teacher and knowledgeable in history for that was what I most regularly studied at the Citadel and was there during your kingly father's reign. Why do you come here to learn, when you refuse to listen to truth? Why do you close your ears?"

"But it's not true." She sounded desperate. "You must be misinformed or lied to. Surely you are wise enough to see the truth."

Finally, I decided to step in. "Daenerys, do you know what happened in after Duskendale?"

She turned to me and shook her head.

It was Haldon who explained, "Duskendale is regularly seen as the catalyst for the downwards turn of your father's reign. Before that point, relations between your father and Lord Tywin had long soured. After hearing words of Lord Tywin being the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, your father grew increasingly distrustful of his Hand. When Lord Denys Darklyn asked for a new charter and autonomy for his town, he was denied, and his lordship refused to pay taxes. In a moment of arrogance and foolishness, your father approached Lord Daenys where he was captured and imprisoned. When it was done, and I'm sure you heard the story of Ser Barristan, the houses of Darklyn and Hollard were put to the sword. When His Grace returned to the court, your father was a changed man, believed to have come about by being locked up in the dungeons and tortured. The king would no longer allow anyone to touch him and, as a result, his hair and fingernails grew longer and longer. No blades were permitted near him other than those worn by the kingsguard and his judgements grew increasingly severe and crueller. The only time your father left the Red Keep was to attend the tourney of Harrenhal."

"Please stop. I don't want to hear it. Not now. Not now."

But Haldon didn't stop. "Do you know why the lords rose up in rebellion against him, Princess Daenerys? Are you aware that your father broke his feudal obligations as King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm when he executed Lord Rickard Stark and his heir Brandon in cold blood? Are you also aware he demanded the heads of Eddard Stark and Lord Robert Baratheon from Lord Jon Arryn of the Vale despite them being innocents of any wrongdoing?"

"I-I . . ." I could swear there were tears in her eyes. Was Dany about to cry? "You are lying. You . . . this is not true. Viserys always said my father was a good king. A good man. That he . . . that he . . ." Daenerys Targaryen stood up and rushed out the room, red faced and red eyed.

Haldon only sighed. " _I'm not paid enough to deal with crying princesses_ ," his eyes seemed to say.

 _Class dismissed I suppose_. "Thank you for the lesson, Haldon. I apologise on behalf of—"

"There is nothing to apologise for. You had done nothing. Daenerys walked away for she refuses to see her father be blamed for his own actions. Tis a shame it is so."

"She was told otherwise," I defended her cautiously. "You can't just expect one to change their world view and how they thought everything worked. Viserys had been teaching her King Aerys was the bestest king Westeros ever had."

"Bestest?" Haldon shook his head. "Might I ask you to stop making up words, Aegon. She might come to her senses in time. I do not doubt that and acknowledge she'll need to. She is a wise girl for her age, and a quick learner, but she needs to be refined. We'll have more lessons and hopefully Daenerys can be given a more favourable view of your house."

 _Propaganda?_ "I hope you don't. I understand the reasoning, but Daenerys should know the complete truth with no skipping of the details both good and bad. Myself as well."

"Just so, Young Griff."

 **...**

I found Daenerys sitting alone beside the marble pool in the largest garden. The air was spicy from the surrounding trees and it shimmered in the heat. She was staring at her own reflection, watching ripples after running her hands through the cool water. "Are you ok, Daenerys?"

"Ok?" She asked, confused.

I smiled and sat down beside her. "Good to know you are, princess." I chuckled and she shook her head like I was speaking gibberish. "With what Haldon said, he—"

"He was lying. I know it," Dany said, voice breaking. "Viserys wouldn't have lied to me. He—your Halfmaester is wrong. Was he truly trained by the Citadel? If so, he would have known and not been kicked out."

"Haldon was never kicked out. He left and it was his choice."

Dany glared at me. "Just so. My father, the king, was a good man."

"Once, I assume he was," I lied as nicely as I could. I always thought Aerys was a prick, even during his early years, thanks to being raised with a silver spoon in his mouth and parental figures scared of hurting the feelings of the future king. But it was Duskendale that turned him into the monster we come to know. "But that doesn't absolve the fact of what he became. I know you hate them, but Baratheon, Stark and many others wouldn't have rose up if they didn't have a reason for it."

"They killed children. The Kingslayer—"

"Aye. They did. Lord Tywin killed you nephew and niece in cold blood and presented their corpses and that of their mother to Robert Baratheon. He smiled and rewarded Lord Tywin for his actions. They should be punished accordingly and face justice. If the Rebellion sought to rebel against tyranny and unjust murder, they stained their cause with their own actions."

"You act like it was justified."

"Kingship isn't absolute and runs on consent of the governed, and those who are governed are the lords. If you were being ruled by an oppressive king, would you tolerate their actions or put someone better in charge, someone you believed is just?"

Daenerys eyed me suspiciously. "Is this a trick?"

"How is this a trick?"

"You're trying to make me agree with you in a way I can't refuse."

I ran a hand down my face. "What I'm saying is that you need to see the full picture. Understand why they rebelled against your father and installed Robert Baratheon in his place. You need to know the truth of your ancestor's past if just to avoid repeating their mistakes. King Aerys Targaryen was a tyrant. Don't believe me or Haldon, ask Ser Jon Connington. He was friends with your brother and served King Aerys as Hand of the King. He was in the royal court at the time and knows first-hand."

Dany glared. "I will do so. Where is he?"

After some searching, we found Connington in the sparring room butchering some straw dummies he had already disembowelled for all the straw carpeting the ground before him. The knight had removed all the blue dye from his hair so it had returned to a red mane beginning to grey from age. While he'd been clean-shaven as Old Griff, he had started to grow back his beard and his rugged face was slick with sweat.

I called Jon's name and he turned around, face softening once he noticed Dany beside me. "Princess Daenerys, Aegon." He bowed his head respectfully, still breathless from must have been a vigorous bout.

"Ser Jon Connington," was my polite response. "I see the straw dummy is dead and you are gasping. I assume it put up a fight?"

"Not as much as I would have liked. I desired to spar against Blackheart or Duck or even that Summer Islander – I forget his name – but they are in Pentos for business." I was intrigued but I didn't have time to ask when Jon continued, "May I ask why the princess is here? Surely you don't intend for her to pick up a sword."

 _That may not be half a bad idea. I'll have to think on that_. I examined her. While she didn't have the height nor build, I could always teach Daenerys to use a knife for self-defence. Dany blushed and I said, "Not as of yet. We were looking for you, ser. We have a few questions we need to ask of you."

"Ask of me?" Jon Connington put the sword away on the rack. "I'm all ears, Aegon. What questions do you wish to ask of me?"

Daenerys spoke up. "You were the Hand of the King for my late father, correct?"

Jon paused for a moment, his features tightening for a moment. "You are correct, princess. King Aerys selected me after dismissing Lord Owen Merryweather who had proven himself weak during his late tenure as Hand of the King. Lord Merryweather's response to Robert Baratheon's rebellion was sending missives to the lords of the Seven Kingdoms declaring the rebel's outlaws and demanding their heads. Being no Tywin Lannister, few cared to heed him. He was weak and ineffective, so your late father thought Lord Owen was conspiring against him. His Handship was stripped of his respective seats and titles and exiled for his failure. I promised to deliver your father Robert's head and led the royal army to Stoney Sept after the stag's defeat at Ashford."

"We came to ask you what King Aerys was like during his later years as king," I said slowly. "Whether he was truly as the stories claim."

He looked at me, then Daenerys. "King Aerys . . ." Jon paused, trying to carefully select his words.

"Speak freely, ser," Dany urged him on. "Pray, do tell the truth."

"King Aerys was a fine king early on in his reign."

"But not later?" Dany deflated. "Is it really true?"

"There is truth in the words, princess," Connington told her. "King Aerys had grown paranoid and saw enemies everywhere, be they true friends or foe. He even saw Prince Rhaegar as his enemy."

"Why would he?" Dany's voice hitched. "My brother was his oldest son, his heir. What cause would father have to distrust him?"

"Your brother, Rhaegar—it was known throughout the court that the king mistrusted his oldest son. There was a growing tension between the factions loyal to the king and those loyal to the Prince of Dragonstone. The court was so tense and divided that Grand Maester Pycelle said how it strongly resembled the royal court before the Dance of the Dragons and it was feared that civil war could break out unless some accord satisfied both factions. Those who stood behind your brother were young lords, knights of renown and heirs of great houses, and the Dornish. Your father had many older lords who would fight for him. To those he saw as enemies, King Aerys was known far and wide to be cruel, but to those he deemed friends, he showered them with wealth and titles."

"You were loyal to my brother and not your king?"

"I will confess, Princess Daenerys," Connington shuffled with a look that shouted how much he'd rather be anywhere else. "Your brother was a true knight and would have made a great king. He showed such promise."

Then he started rattling off on all of Prince Rhaegar's many 'positive' qualities. _Damn Jon. I thought you had a boyfriend in Myles. Do you have to betray him by gushing over your dead crush?_ I did block out his words of Rhaegar and Dany's eyes widened as she listened with clear admiration. _Perhaps I'll have to wean them both off Rhaegar's cock as well_.

There are not enough words in the English language to list my distaste of the guy. The fact everyone gushed over him, be it Cersei, Joncon or Ser Barristan, made me think everyone was deliberately being stupid. In no way could I imagine Rhaegar being smart. He was a stupid prince, the most stupid of princes, one that would have destroyed the Seven Kingdoms with his shortsightedness even if Aerys didn't decide to perform one of his famous barbecues. He was a failed politician, a failed commander and warrior and I suspected he believed the world resolved around himself because if you truly believe you're the chosen one, you're not right in the head. That's not even talking about the stupid romanticism surrounding him. _He died whispering a woman's mouth on his lips . . ._ Shouldn't he be wearing a helmet, face down in the river, in the middle of the battle where people were looting his not-yet-dead corpse? _But then again, dying of a collapsed lung filling with blood while struggling for breath, all while being looted, doesn't sound half as romantic nor the kind of tale to make the maidens' panties wet_. Oh, I almost forgot how he treated his wife and two children. Just thinking that made me want to go to the Trident just so I could stomp on his face a few times.

Ok, I considered myself slightly biased on the matter.

I was unsure how long I'd zoned out, but they were still talking about Rhaegar and how gosh-darn perfect he was. Allowing Dany this moment, I stood to the side of the discussion. Eventually me and Daenerys took our leave and Joncon returned to his straw dummies, though not with the same fervour as before. I offered her my arm which she accepted with a resigned look across her face.

"You were right, it seems," Dany said after a moment of walking down the empty hallway. "I never knew my father in truth. He died before I was born. All that I know of him is what Viserys had told me. If . . . if even half of what said is true, I need to know. I need to know everything about father and mother, both good and ill."

 _What about your brother Rhaegar? Would you be willing to hear the bad about him?_ "That would be a wise cause of action, princess." I offered her a smile but she didn't return it.

"I didn't believe you, truth be told. You are a Blackfyre and despite your words, I couldn't take your words for truth with everything that has happened between our houses. I believed you were . . . I thought you were dishonest in your intentions."

 _The stain of our history will not be removed for some time, it seems_. "We are to be married and I'll be working closely beside your brother when we finally invade Westeros. We need to trust one-another, and I have no intentions of going against House Targaryen. I know we can't forget what has happened, but we shouldn't let that cause us to distrust each other. Alliances built on sand never survive the first waves crashing into them." _But can we build trust with just words?_

"I suppose not," Daenerys Targaryen allowed.

Not knowing where to go and still with her arm on mine, I led Daenerys back to the garden where the sun was shining down on the marble pool surrounded by marble pillars decorated with lush green ivy. Sitting on the stone ledge, she ran her hand through the water. The pond was stocked with tiny golden fish that either fled or cautiously approached and nibbled curiously at her fingers. Dany giggled.

"Do you think Aegon's Red Keep has a pool like this, and fragrant gardens full of lavender and mint? I know you weren't there, but do you imagine it? Viserys always said the Seven Kingdoms are more beautiful than any other place in the world and he's been there. The Red Keep was made by our ancestors and is meant to look like the home of kings."

Looking down at the pond, I said, "I'm certain the Seven Kingdoms are beautiful. I can't speak for it, of course. Unlike you, I wasn't even born in Westeros and perhaps because of this, I don't think it'll compare to Essos. They are two different continents and it would be wrong to say each weren't without their charms. The Red Keep though? I assume it is a handsome structure for sure, but compared to my father's manse? There is no competition."

Dany pursed her lips, eyeing me for a moment before sending a tidal wave of water at me. The water hit my chest and I leapt to my feet. Daenerys let out a high laugh, throwing her head back and shacking her shoulder. While Dany was a girl more like to giggle, her true laugh was certainly memorable and usually interspaced with a snort that sounded so unbecoming of a princess of House Targaryen.

I let out a colourful curse beneath my breath as water ran down my neck and into my boots. "Seems your hand must have slipped," I said drily.

"It must have," she smirked playfully as she leaned her back over the water.

I was sorely tempted to push her into the pool, though I doubted she would have cared for that. Instead, I held in my anger and returned to my seat beside her, trying hard not to frown at the cheeky look she was giving me. Running a hand through my hair, I said, "And now Septa Lemore is going to lecture me about getting my clothes wet."

Daenerys playfully pushed my shoulder. "It was only water, you big baby. Consider it a little payback."

"You really want to escalate this into something you can't win?"

Looking me up and down, she smirked mischievously. "You think I can't?"

"I've had much experience in the art of throwing people in water, actually," I said as if that meant something. I couldn't compete to the sports played in the Water Gardens, true, but after fighting Serpent Squad, I was sure to beat Dany should she try to push me into the pool. "Do you really want to start another Blackfyre Rebellion?"

A sparkle appeared in Daenerys' eye. _Pretty eyes_. Large and violet and innocent but held in them a playful charm. Without thinking, my hand found her cheek, cupping it in a callused palm. Dany's skin was smooth and unusually hot, a pleasure to touch. Her cheeks only grew hotter as colour crept into them. _Seriously, what are you doing?_ Daenerys was only a child and I was, well, an adult in a teen's body. I was about to let go until I heard someone's footsteps and, in the corner of my eye, saw a familiar shape. A stupid smile tugged at my lips and I closed the distance.

" _What are you two doing!"_

We stopped, lips near touching and turned around, dropping my hand from her face only to see Viserys staring daggers at me. I smiled my most innocent smile.

The Beggar King wore a rich doublet emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen in rubies and scarlet silk, a long red cloak around his shoulders and that gilded sword on his hip. Shadowing him was Ser Jorah Mormont, the exiled creep from Bear Island. The knight wore mail and leather and a face made for scowling. He was scowling now. At the night of the dance, Ser Jorah Mormont had bent the knee, offered his sword to Viserys who accepted most eagerly and now the knight served as the Targaryen's personal bodyguard.

The Targaryen king strolled forward, eyes not leaving mine. "What are _you_ doing?" he repeated, voice turning into a growl.

"Vis—" Dany was silenced by his gaze and was quick to shy away.

"Answer me," Viserys demanded, shooting me a glare before looking down at my tunic, lips twisting. "Why are you wet? Go for a little swim?"

"Your sister threw me into the pool," I said nonchalantly. "I got a little wet as you can see."

"We can see," the exiled knight said with a grim face.

Ser Jorah Mormont wasn't a handsome man by any means. He had a thick neck and shoulders like a bull, coarse black hair covering every part of him from his arms and face but leaving none for the top of his head. He was also in his late forties, highlighting the wrongness of his actions regarding Daenerys. Just remembering that made me subconsciously grasp my dirk, though I resisted the urge to thrust it into the man's eye. _He even looks a paedophile_. Granted, that may be some exaggeration, but he did molest Daenerys while she was naked, not to mention grooming an impressionable young girl. It didn't make me like him and it must have shown because Ser Jorah had grown a disliking towards me as well.

"Why were you kissing my sister?" Viserys went back on track from his slight departure.

"I wasn't kissing her." I was about to truly do so, to my shock, and put it down to the hormones. _Keep control of yourself. This is not Britain. Don't act like it is by having a little snog_.

"You looked like it. You _were_ touching her."

"Mayhaps we should leave," Dany said, about to stand up before I grasped her arm and smiled at her, though my eyes were directed at her brother.

"Why leave? We're not hurting anyone and besides, a true dragon doesn't bend."

Viserys didn't like that. " _You_ should leave," he told me, moving his hip to show his sword as if I'd forgotten he always carried one on his person. "My sister can stay. I have some words I mean to tell her."

"Is that how you treat your future good-brother?"

He laughed, a bitter sound that carried no love. "We are not family, Blackfyre. Remember that. Oh, I might have offered my sister for an army, but that doesn't make us kin."

Wasn't the best welcome to the family speech I'd received, which was a shame. "Tis true, but I do believe you promised me to your sister so it would be most strange if I was forbidden to see her."

"It is not strange at all, Blackfyre. I'm the head of House Targaryen and she's my sister so she does as I say. I am the king and she's a princess, so she does as I say. You bent the knee and I am your master, so you do as I say."

I glared daggers at him. "Daenerys can do as she wills. You may be her brother and king, and I swore a vow to serve you, but this manse is my father's and he's the host while you lot are guests. Speaking with Illyrio's voice, I say she's free to do as she likes under this roof." _And any other_.

Viserys looked surprised for a moment, then his face tightened. "Are you refusing me?"

"I am and I say you should leave." _Even the kings of England bent to the wishes of their lords_.

" _You dare!"_ he screamed. "Do give commands _to me? To me?"_ He stormed forward, face flushed, and a hand wrapped tight around his sword tilt as if to threaten me. "You are the descendent of bastards and traitors. Your parents were a _bedslave and a cheesemonger_. I am the son of a _king_ ; I _am_ the king. Have you forgotten your place, or do you think because you were promised my sister's hand, that you stand as my equal?"

 _I'm not your equal, vermin. I'm your superior_. My fingers brushed the handle of the dirk. If he wanted blood, I was more than happy to give, guest rights be damned. Despite being outclassed, I had been taught to defend myself and I was confident enough that I could give Viserys a mortal wound before either he or Jorah unsheathed their swords.

"Please, Viserys!" Dany moved between us, her arms spread wide before touching his sword hand to stop him from drawing his blade. "Please, don't do anything! Don't hurt him!"

That was a mistake. His anger turned from me to her. "You do _not_ command the dragon. You don't get between the dragon and his prey! I am the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and I won't be given orders to from a traitor's slut, do you hear me?" He made a move to slap her out the way, but Daenerys pushed him, hard.

Viserys stood taller than his sister, and Dany was slight, so the push wasn't all that strong. But from how his face shifted, it might have been. Rage twisted his features and I knew that he would hurt her badly. Instincts taking charge, I grabbed Daenerys shoulder and pushed her behind me. "You will not lay a finger on her," was all I said to him.

"You seek to horde her to yourself and use my own sister against me?"

 _Isn't that what I've been doing since she got here?_ "I seek to protect her. From you, if needs be."

"Ser Jorah, hit him." He turned to his knight. "Hit him. Get him out the way, the king commands it!"

If one would assume Ser Jorah was going to stand back and do nothing, you were wrong. The Northern knight stepped forward and began to unsheathe his sword but was quick to turn his head and return the blade to its scabbard when a column of Unsullied household guard charged forward, led by their captain and Jon Connington whose face was as red as his hair. Knowing that would certainly have ended in their deaths, Viserys and company retreated.

With his hand resting atop his sword hilt, Jon watched Viserys and Jorah leave before turning back around to us, his craggy face twisting with narrowed eyes. He wasn't happy. "What was going on here? Did you give them cause to almost draw their swords?"

 _You blame me?_ I felt my face redden in anger at the allegation.

Before I could say anything, it was Dany who replied as she stared at her hands. "I pushed him. I _pushed_ him." She sounded surprised, though full of wonder as if such a thing was impossible.

"You pushed your king?" Connington asked, confused.

"She did," I almost laughed and tried hard to keep from smiling. _There is the fire inside you. Looks like it's been ignited_.

"I . . . I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have laid a finger on him let alone a hand. It was wrong of me. He was my brother – my king. Oh gods, Eg-Aegon, do you, you think . . ." she shivered.

"During the time of the Targaryens, it was a crime to lay a hand upon the king of Westeros," Connington frowned. "If you weren't a crown royal, he could have had your hand off for that."

 _Viserys is king in name only. Even those pledged to serve him see him as nothing more than a tool to be later disposed of_. "Daenerys did the right thing," I said, offering the girl an encouraging look. "It was somewhat foolish, it must be said, and you could have got hurt." _Dangerously close to. Just fortunate the household guard arrived in the nick of time . . ._

"What caused this?" Jon asked me, his face softening.

"Me and Dany were sitting by the pool. We were only talking and Viserys came along. I may have said some things and—"

"Don't say foolish things than. Should you give people cause against you, they will take offence. I thought you knew, and Daenerys, you—"

Once more, Dany looked to be shaking and stared at Jon's feet. "I know. It was foolish of me. I shouldn't have. I woke the dragon, didn't I?"

Despite myself, I laughed. Daenerys turned to me, confused. "He's no dragon, princess. A dragon is be a magnificent beast. Proud yes, but not the kind to start a fight over some petty words. You have nothing to fear from your brother. He isn't a dragon. He's little more than a snake, though I do think snakes would be offended by the comparison."

"But he's got Ser Jorah at his side. Doesn't that scare you?"

"He's got a bear. I've a duck," I smiled. "Should he even poise a threat, you need to remember that this manse is swarming with both Golden Company men and Unsullied. They won't let any harm come to me, nor let any come to you."

"He is the king," Connington reminded me.

 _And who are you loyal to, Ser Jon?_ While he might be a Rhaegar loyalist who jumped onto the Targaryen bandwagon for some meaning and revenge against the Baratheons as well as Varys for the whole deception, I doubted he would go out his way to protect Viserys. He never did before and why would he protect someone like Viserys over a boy he came to see as a son?

"He is the king. It would be wrong to lie and say Aegon did not aggravate him," her voice was stilted. "You had sworn him your sword, you swore an oath."

"I did, princess," I allowed. "Though I ask you this one question and I want you to answer it as honestly and swear on the honour of House Targaryen. Do you truly want to see Viserys sit the Iron Throne?"

She paused for quite a while, and before answering, looked around to see if Viserys was still there. "He will not be a good king, will he?"

"He was about to slap you, so you pushed him away. That is not the attitude I would want to come from a king. What you did was brave."

"Was it?"

"Indeed. Very brave." I smiled warmly and she blushed. She did blush prettily.

"He tried to slap you?" Connington asked. "Why didn't you say that before? You . . . if that is true, then maybe . . ." He ran a hand through his hair. "Pray forgive me, the both of you, but I needs speak with someone. Excuse me." He bowed his head and walked away.

When Jon had gone, we once more sat beside the pond. "Aegon, do you think Westeros will rise for my brother? Your father says they are sewing dragon banners and praying for his return."

"The smallfolk or the lords? There are those who desire the return of the Targaryens, but just as many stand opposed. Most don't care. The smallfolk care not for who rules them so long as they are safe, have food on the table, healthy children and rain for their crops. Most smallfolk won't see the lords who rule them, and few ever have the chance to glimpse royalty in their lifetime."

"But surely they care about who is their rightful king?"

"They want to live their lives in peace and quiet. Why should they care who sits the Iron Throne in King's Landing? Do you care who rules in Yi Ti? To them, both are just as far away as each other. In their minds, kings are nothing more than a name and idea. I wouldn't say you can't get them to care, however. Every smallfolk is a person with their own desires and wishes. Most are humble and as numerous as grains of sand on a beach, but they shouldn't be underestimated nor are they powerless. They are no great lord or knight who were taught with the sword, but many discovered the hard way how dangerous the smallfolk are when truly angered. Maegor the Cruel when fighting the Faith, Rhaenyra when the smallfolk stormed the Dragonpit, Daeron the Young Dragon when the Dornish rose up."

Daenerys looked at me for a moment, her face blank with resigned realisation. "They won't rise for him. Would anyone rise for us? He will never take the Seven Kingdoms, now will he?" She didn't sound shocked.

"You don't think so?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Even with the Golden Company, it won't be enough. Those who lead his army look down on him. It is clear they are more than loyal to you. They only follow my brother because their own loyalty to the black dragon. He has no coin and lives on your father's charity. The clothes on his back, even the sword at his hip is borrowed. He only has Ser Jorah Mormont at his side. He will not take us home."

 _He can't. But you can_.

* * *

A/N: Took longer than initially expected, and requiring multiple re-edits, but here it is. A brief update on the uplifting but mostly on Daenerys. She's a smart girl but never really had a proper education. Here she'll have that benefit so she should be more effective, not to mention being surrounded by more competent advisers. Anyway, we broke seven hundred favourites and nine hundred followers. Yay! Once again I'd like to thank everyone reading this fic and hoped you enjoyed this chapter. Until next time.

Comments:

Tom2011: I will and next chapter will show Cersei in the small council.

osterreicher97: There are Targaryen loyalists who Robert fears, as should there be houses with Blackfyre sympathies such as the Peaks in the Reach. You're correct about the perception of the Golden Company being better than the army Daenerys gets in canon (which is designed to make her hated). Disagree about Viserys' reputation because few Westerosi know him. If anything, it's Daenerys who has the horrid reputation in the canon.

TMI Fairy: Perhaps it is going a little too fast, but it's not unknown outside the genre and needs to be sped along for the war. There should be a few dragonseeds as Targs like Aerion Brightflame and Saera Targaryen likely have decedents in the Free Cities. I do think some of Aerys ideas could have worked and benefited the realm if there were changes to them like the qanats.

najex: I do want Aegon and Daenerys to get into arguments in the future with the lies and opposing ideals as she becomes increasingly independent. It is kind of obvious he is using her.

VladImpaler: Cheers. She will become more independent and learning about her father was a start. Now she just has to step out of Viserys' shadow and stand on her own. The dragons will be hatching within a few chapters.

Tartarus0884: Took some persuading but she's going down the right cause. Viserys wouldn't be a good choice for a dragon rider for he has too much emotional baggage at this point and him actually riding a dragon would pose a threat. A good thing it'll take a few years for a dragon to get large enough to be ridden.


	20. Interlude: The Smaller Council

**Catalyst**

 **Interlude: The Smaller Council**

* * *

Cersei Lannister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, was impatiently tapping her fingers on the polished table as Grand Maester Pycelle rambled on and on. The old man spoke of Essos, of spice traders, sellswords and things she cared little about.

Of late, there had been much talk of Essos and mercenaries. Only a short time ago, she had been bored with talk of the Golden Company crushing some Dothraki warlord she couldn't remember the name of. _Droko, Mogo?_ All Dothraki names sounded the same to her. Despite all the misgivings the Grand Maester urged, Cersei couldn't bring herself to care. She was queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Why should she concern himself with some sellswords on the other side of the Narrow Sea? The Free Cities were always fighting each other in an endless series of betrayals and alliances that meant little and less to Westeros.

Pycelle finished his dull lecture with a bowed head, blinking with heavy-lidded eyes and struggling not to yawn. He carried the weight of two dozen heavy woven chains around his neck and it was a ponderous thing that covered him from throat to breast. The links were forged of every metal known to man: black iron and red gold, bright copper and dull lead, steel and pale silver, brass and bronze and platinum. Jewels crusted the metals as well: garnets and amethysts and black pearls, all adorning the metal work, as were the occasional emerald and ruby. From what Cersei could remember, he had never been anything but old. He was getting older and more absent-minded, but Cersei Lannister could not doubt he looked magnificent. Ever courteous, richly clad and with an immense white beard, Pycelle looked dignified and carried with him an air of wisdom.

Only a few seats across, sitting atop the king's seat was her husband, staring angrily with fierce blue eyes. "We shouldn't have trusted those spineless merchants to put an end to them," Robert Baratheon growled before emptying his cup in one mouthful. Rich Arbor red ran down his face, into his coarse black beard and staining his silken doublet with wine instead of just sweat. "Jon Arryn, may the Seven watch over him, persuaded me the Free Cities would have dealt with them. That they would have united, forced the Golden Company out of the Disputed Lands and brought an end to their latest scheme. That or the ambitions of Toyne would founder and die." He cursed and loudly. "Not only had they not collapsed and now control a sizeable portion of the Stepstones, that pox-ridden Pentoshi cheesemonger now has both dragonspawn in his manse _and_ the audacity to marry the girl to his own son."

 _What are you going to do about that, dear husband?_ King Robert Baratheon had been strong and fierce in his youth, a giant towering above other men, with women whispering he was sculpted like a god between sighs. _The Warrior Reborn_ , they called him. When Cersei first saw him, her handmaidens told her how happy she must have been, how lucky she was to have Robert Baratheon as her husband. How handsome and strong and ferocious like a stag King Robert was. How she would have so many children by him, all strong and lusty with black hair and blue eyes. The queen could almost laugh. _Look at you now. Think you can take on Essos and the Golden Company?_

What she saw wasn't King Robert the Demon of the Trident. What she saw was an overweight man; massive, but now in girth as well as height. Horrid black hair carpeted thick on his chest and coarse around his sex. Where once he had been clean-shaven, he now sported a thick wiry beard that failed to hide his double chin. His eyes were puffy from wine and surrounded with dark circles. Red-faced and covered with beads of sweat, even climbing the stairs was a strain for the great warrior king. The idea of him leading an army in this state was something the queen found droll and almost laughed at the absurdity of it. It was tempting though, and Cersei made a point to remember. No doubt if she were to act the good loving wife and plead for her husband not to go, it would make Robert more adamant with doing so. _He's bound to die, no doubt heroically, and will leave the throne open for Joffrey to inherit and myself as regent_.

"Why does this matter concern us?" Lord Renly asked, looking very much like Robert Baratheon in his youth. Lean where his older brother was fat, near as tall as the king and had a clean-shaven face. He was soft and fickle and so corruptible, spending all his time in the small council japing with Littlefinger rather than anything productive. She hated that about him. Hated him for his mockery behind perfectly rehearsed smiles and taking up a seat that could instead go to a Lannister. "Who cares if the girl is being married to some cheeseseller's pockmarked son. They are no threat to us."

"Indeed," Littlefinger said, reclining casually in his seat with a lopsided smirk. "Perchance we offer them a fine wedding gift?"

"Aye," Robert grimaced. "A sharp knife and a good man to wield it. Both those vermin need to die."

Cersei looked up lazily from her wine.

"Beg your pardon, Your Grace?" Ser Barristan asked, bowing his head slightly like a loyal little lapdog. "Did I hear you correctly?" Even in the small council, the Lord Commander of the kingsguard wore a suit of white enamelled scales and the white cloak of his order. He was tall and pale, with blue eyes and a body strong despite his age. Cersei imagined how much better it would be for Jaime to sit in his seat, with his long curly hair of beaten gold instead of dull white, a smooth face so like her own instead of an old man's winkles.

"You think that is wise, Your Grace?" the raspy voice of Pycelle asked with all the strength of an old man on his deathbed.

"Wise? _Of course it is wise!_ Both those dragonspawn are now under the care of a Pentoshi magister looking across the Narrow Sea at us. They are no doubt mocking us with how close they are, and we can do nothing about it. Not with them being protected behind his walls and surrounded by an army of Unsullied slave soldiers."

"A cockless army," Littlefinger quipped.

The king's mouth twisted. "The gods be cursed."

"Mayhaps we send a warning and put all Pentos to the torch to remind Essos of the stag's wroth," Renly suggested with a smirk and the shrug of his shoulders. "What can some trader do against our might?"

"Are you a fool, brother?" Stannis asked, glaring at the Master of Laws. Lord Stannis Baratheon sat as tall as his king with a spine made of iron and lead, thin where Robert was fat but with the same broad shoulders the king had in his youth. Where His Grace had a horrid beard of wiry black hair, Stannis Baratheon only had a close-cropped beard across his large jaw, a heavy brow and a fringe of black hair so short he might as well be bald. His entire face had a tightness like cured leather which grew even tighter whenever he ground his teeth. He was grinding his teeth now. "It is known to even the most ignorant of fishwives that Magister Illyrio Mopatis has allies within and outside the Triarchy. Many of whom visited his manse to inspect the Targaryen pretenders for themselves."

Robert spat angrily. "I should never have trusted the Titan and Elephant to put an end to them. They know nought of the ways of war. The Golden Company are exiles, many from bloodlines dating back from before Aegon the Conqueror invaded and remained in Essos since the days of Daemon the Pretender. Should they align themselves with the Beggar King, he'll get twenty thousand men and the might of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters."

"Your Grace, the Triarchy are not a kingdom in the true sense of the word," Pycelle said with agonising slowness. "The Golden Company declares itself the protector of the Disputed Land and the eastern islands of the Stepstones, to guard the cities and the land it governs. They are, in other words, wardens."

"Gentle words to say ransoming them for tribute," Littlefinger translated. "Every few months the officers of the Golden Company receive coin from the three of them. They even went as far as to replace native officials with others who are much more pliable. We lost more than a few allies and it was enough to worry the Titan of Braavos which is why they hired Khal Drogo. A foolish decision, it must be said. The Dothraki care little for the ways of gold, or strategy if what I heard was true. The Golden Company is even richer now and their hold more secure."

Robert growled. "Stannis, should it come to pass, is the royal fleet enough to contest such an invasion?"

"The royal fleet can't compete with the fleets of Myr, Tyrosh and Lys on its own. The royal fleet numbers fifty-and-a-hundred warships which will increase should we confiscate merchant vessels. That won't be enough, however. Only with the Arbor can we hope to stand against them in the Narrow Sea."

"The-the Redwyne fleet is the largest in Westeros," Pycelle needlessly told everyone. "Lord Paxter Redwyne owns two hundred warships and serving him is five times as many merchant carracks and wine cogs, trading galleys and whalers."

"Whereas the Triarchy has four hundred warships and can levy as many vessels as the Redwynes," Stannis told the council with a scowl aimed at no one in particular. "Should war be declared, they hold the advantage and have the coin to hire pirates operating in the Stepstones. Many of those pirates hold close ties with those in the Free Cities and, like many times before, will join their kin and further increase their naval capabilities."

"That's if they don't just raid the coast," Littlefinger added. "Pirates are attracted to weakness like krakens to blood. Should the lords ride to war, they'll take their garrisons with them and thus the coast will be easy prey to slavers operating across the Narrow Sea, and raiders looking for easy pillaging."

"My lands," Renly grimaced. "The Stormlands are the closest to the Stepstones and are regularly raided by those scum. I won't have pirates striking my holdings."

Robert gulped down his wine and ordered the serving girl to fetch him another. "Stannis, you are to expand the royal fleet should such a thing happen. Enough ships to deal with whatever invasion the Triarchy can send against us. Lord Baelish will see you have the necessary coin."

"Your Grace," Littlefinger was quick to interject, "I'm afraid to report that the royal treasury lacks the necessary coin for such expansion."

"You will find the coin, or I will find a Master of Coin that will."

Petyr Baelish bowed his head. "I will need to borrow the necessary gold to build whatever number of dromonds Lord Stannis requires, and hire the crews to man them. No doubt the Iron Bank will be accommodating. It will be done, Your Grace, rest assured."

King Robert grunted in response. "I will kill every dragon I will get my hands on. I won't stop until the Targaryens are dead as those dragons of theirs and then I'll piss on their graves. If we owe some moneylenders a couple more coppers, so be it."

Cersei Lannister had long learnt not to speak up whenever Robert spoke of the Targaryens. His hatred controlled his actions and she couldn't forgive him. Not now. Not ever. He was the one to slay Prince Rhaegar on the Trident with that crude hammer of his. _The wrong man came back from war that day_. It was Rhaegar who should have won. It was Rhaegar who Cersei should have married. She could still remember his long silver-gold hair fluttering before her and dark-indigo eyes that had melted her heart. Rhaegar stood tall and proud, with a face so impossibly beautiful he might as well be carved from marble by the Smith himself. Even Jaime, her beautiful brother, looked no more than a pig boy beside him. When she saw Rhaegar in Lannisport, the Prince of Dragonstone was seventeen and recently knighted, armoured in black plate over golden mail with streams of red and black that looked like fire. Cersei could still remember him playing his silver harp, plucking the strings with long elegant fingers and making the pavilion weep. Her lord father had promised her his hand. Rhaegar was to be her husband and she was to be his queen, birthing him silver lions who would be the most beautiful creatures in the world. On numerous nights Cersei laid awake, imagining Rhaegar as hers and only hers. After hearing the news of her father's plan, Cersei had drawn him with her mounted atop a dragon but when Jaime saw it, she lied and said it was Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys. But that dream ended on the Trident. Cersei Lannister could never forget what Robert had done. She was to have a husband worthy of her but instead got a savage, uncaring brute who forced himself upon her when deep in his cups.

"Your Grace," Barristan spoke up again, "The Targaryens, the girl, is only a child, and innocent besides."

"And how long will that creature remain an innocent, Ser Barristan?" The king's mouth grew hard. "Lowborn husband or no, that child will soon spread her legs and start breeding more dragonspawn to plague me and my descendants with."

 _Yes, continuing believing that you horned king_. Cersei never wanted to have his children and made sure of that. The one time she did get pregnant with one of his spawn, Cersei made sure Robert wouldn't have an heir of his own body, so she sent Jaime to find a woman to cleanse her. The woman didn't last long, of course. Cersei couldn't have anyone knowing should the king find out or, worse, someone like Varys use it for leverage. _I should kill the Spider once he's done being useful_. Just like Littlefinger, he was too useful to kill and hard to replace, unlike everyone else in the small council.

"But the murder of children is vile and unspeakable—"

"What the Targaryens did was unspeakable. The Targaryens are monsters like those beasts of theirs. They are an axe hanging over my own neck and those of my children. Every day we delay, the axe edges closer."

"Just so," Varys said with sadness dripping from his slimy voice. "For the good of the realm we'll need to deal with those pesky dragons. But first, shall we discuss the matter regarding the title of Warden of the East from our late Lord Jon Arryn?"

Littlefinger nodded in agreement, with a lazy smile plastered across his face. Cersei wanted to throw her glass at him, but had no desire to waste good wine. "We can't have a sickly child defending the realm, even one as . . . _notable_ as Lord Robert Arryn."

The death of Lord Arryn had left a position empty in the small council and caused instability that Cersei cared not for. Not only had the newly made Lord of the Vale flee from King's Landing in the arms of his cow of a mother - the boy being promised to be a ward of her lord father - the east coast of Westeros didn't have a war leader to command should they face an invasion. The title traditionally belonged to the Lord Paramount's of House Arryn, but the boy was a frail sickly thing that was still to be weaned despite being six years of age. Suffering from shakes and prone to weep at nothing, the Vale was in weak hands. He was nothing like his father, but Cersei did see opportunities.

"Should an invasion from the Golden Company headed by the Targaryens land, Lord Arryn shouldn't be leading our armies. We need a true warrior to lead, a true knight in the honour of command," Ser Barristan put forth. "There are many skilled lords and knights worthy of the duty and honour."

"Your Grace," Pycelle was quick to argue, "The title of Warden of the East has historically always belonged to House Arryn, passed on to every Lord of the Vale beginning with Lord Ronnel Arryn since it was bestowed upon him by Aegon the Conqueror. The lords and ladies of the Vale will be unhappy should you bestow the title to anyone else."

"Can you imagine that little falcon defending the realm?" Littlefinger quipped. "While we've witnessed little lords go to war, he would be among the first, and oldest, to have a milk moustache. Makes me wonder if his lady mother will ride beside him."

"Should the little lord be hungry?" Renly laughed. "Imagine him before the men, rousing them with a speech in armour, then leaning over to suckle his mother's teats. The Golden Company might just die of laughter!"

Cersei allowed herself a light chuckle at the droll imagery, but the two of them laughed enough for all the council. When they were silenced by Stannis' expression, Cersei put her own suggestion forth: "Jaime. He should be Warden of the East. He's among the best swordsman in the realm and a talented commander. Should the Golden Company invade, they need to face a fearless warrior to throw them back into the sea, not a suckling boy."

Pycelle bobbed his head. "Ser Jaime is renown throughout the realm. None can doubt his skill with the sword and courage, and Lord Tywin does command forty thousand swords. Should his Grace decide someone else, there are few who are better suited for such an honour."

"The Kingsguard are forbidden to hold titles," Lord Stannis Baratheon grumbled through clenched teeth. "There are plenty of lords who are dutiful and experienced battle commanders. Any one of them would be better placed than Ser Jaime Lannister and Lord Robert Arryn."

"And do you suggest only you are worthy of the task, brother?" Renly smiled.

Stannis ground his teeth. "Temporarily until Lord Arryn comes of age. We can't afford a sickly child leading the armies of Westeros."

"Then perchance I'll put myself forward," Renly declared. "I'm lord of the Stormlands that's perhaps one the first places to be attacked by the Golden Company as they leap from the Stepstones like frogs over lily pads. If not that, the first against those Dornish who, by no doubt, will be one of the Targaryens allies. I'm the closest so I should have the honour. Not to mention, I am Lord of Storm's End."

"You? You have never led the men into battle. The closest thing to fighting you've ever done is fall from your horse when prancing around before the commons. You have no experience in war other than being a boy at Storm's End, and I don't remember you doing anything more than any other. Besides, Storm's End and the Stormlands is mine by rights. I'm the oldest and the lands should have gone to me."

Renly's face went red but Robert, mayhaps because he didn't desire to join in the war between his brothers, declared, "Seven watch over me. The position will go to Ser Jaime Lannister. He's a knight and talented warrior. No doubt the Lords of the Vale will curse me, but so be it. A six-year-old boy is no war leader, especially against the likes of the Golden Company and the Triarchy." He grimaced. "My grandfather died on the Stepstones and my father took command of his host. Lord Robert Arryn will not share the same fate. I will not send Jon's son off to die."

"A wise cause of action, Your Grace," Littlefinger piped up, his words repeated eagerly by Grand Maester Pycelle, with a much warmer comment by Varys the Spider who praised the king for sparing the boy's life from such a cruel fate.

Stannis, of course, grimaced and Cersei could hear the grinding of his teeth on the other side of the table. He clenched his jaw so hard Cersei was half certain his teeth would shatter. "Your Grace, Ser Jaime Lannister is—"

"What, my lord?" Cersei smiled at him, tilting her head ever-so-slightly. "He's a better sword than yourself and the men love him. He has proven himself in countless jousts and more battles than I dare count. What have you achieved other than hiding behind the walls of Storm's End?"

Stannis' face tightened and the veins in his neck seemed to pop, but before he could say anything, Robert declared, "I'll hear no more of it. Ser Jaime is my Warden of the East. Mayhaps Lord Robert will regain the title in time should he prove himself, but until then, we need a tested knight to command the armies in the east. I'll hear no more. Now of the Targaryens."

"My king," Varys said in a slithery tongue and cocked his powder covered head to the side. "To properly secure the safety of the realm, might it be wise to remove Viserys Targaryen? He is a much greater threat than his younger sister. From what my little birds tell me, she is a delicate little thing. I hear from Ser Jorah that she is sickly and small for her age and is not like to survive childbirth. He would not deceive me."

"If a Targaryen draws breath, it is a threat," Stannis declared. "Give them time and they'll breed as the Blackfyres had done. A knife is safer. I trust not the gods to see it through."

"Aye," Renly laughed, much to his older brothers' annoyance. "Perchance we hand them over to Lord Baelish and we'll be all the richer."

"You honour me, my lord," Littlefinger smirked, "Though I'm afraid my skills with gold dragon are less than what those ones across the Narrow Sea are capable of."

"Is this a mummer's show or a small council meeting?" Stannis questioned him with a scowl that could have shrivelled the cunts of a hundred maidens. "Should you wish to make japes, mayhaps we should dress you up in motley then you can prance around as you desire."

"Pray forgive me, Lord Stannis," Littlefinger said, not sounding at all that shaken. "I'm afraid to say that rich colours do not suit my complexion, you see. And we already have Moon Boy. I would rather not see him on the streets."

" _Silence!"_ the king bellowed, his voice echoing through the small council chambers. "I want him dead. I want them _both_ dead, but Viserys most of all. Give the man who uses the knife gold if you must. I should have killed them long ago when it was easy to get to them, but Jon Arryn persuaded me it would be wrong to kill them. They are only children, he said, and I was a fool to take his counsel. Even after the Golden Company conquered the Disputed Lands and the Stepstones, I listened to him." King Robert signed and looked all the weaker. "He was a good man, Lord Arryn, but was too honourable to a fault. Gods be good, if we need to launch an invasion of the Stepstones once more to crush this invasion in the crib, I'll do so and gladly. The Golden Company have yet to take the rest of the Stepstones, but should they do so, they'll threaten the Seven Kingdoms."

"We should approach the cities of Volantis and Braavos," Lord Stannis suggested. "They have little love for the Triarchy and sought to resist the Golden Company but failed. No doubt they haven't given up yet. Should there be war, we could ask for their fleets to support our armies. They might even be willing to war against them alongside us."

"Both Targaryens must be killed," Renly said. "Though I'd rather send one man over a few thousand."

Varys nodded sadly. "We have no choice. It is a sad thing, but we needs do as we must. I feel for the sweet child."

Ser Barristan shook his head, raising pale-blue eyes from the table and said, "There is no honour in using poison or an assassin's knives. There is honour facing an enemy on the battlefield. I say that should the Golden Company and Targaryens join forces, we wait for them to attack. We fight them just as we did in the War of the Ninepenny Kings."

"You are an honourable man, Ser Barristan, but a fool," Robert said, shaking his head. "I will not see them land. I will not see Westeros burn."

"My lords of the council," Cersei put her voice forward. "We all here know how dangerous a threat both the Targaryens pose. One is a child, not much older than my own Joff, and I'm sure that removing a child is something none of us wish to happen. I bare neither any ill will, but we are servants of the realm. Should any land on these blessed shores with an army, no matter how big, the realm will burn. Is it no doubt better to end it now than risk unnecessary brutality?"

Grand Maester Pycelle bobbed his head, his heavy chains clinking. "A wise and most considerate thought, Your Grace. As I counselled King Aerys as loyally as I counsel King Robert, none of us desire bad things to happen, yet we serve the realm and would it no doubt be kinder for the realm as a whole for this to happen? How many towns will burn? How many men will die, and maidens be despoiled by sellswords?" He stroked his beard, a sad look on his wise old face. "Is it kinder that two may die so thousands might live?"

"Her Grace and the Grand Maester are right," Varys the Spider tittered. "Well and truly spoken. It is so true. We do serve the realm and should the Targaryens land, the realm will indeed bleed."

"And to face this new threat from beyond the Narrow Sea, the king will need a new and firm Hand," Cersei Lannister reminded her husband in a voice of the loyal queen she had perfected from her years in King's Landing. "Mayhaps my lord father would be willing to shoulder your burdens, Your Grace, and accept the position. Someone strong to deal with the Targaryens." She had long encouraged her father over that old fool from the Vale. Lord Tywin was experienced from his time as Aerys' own hand. He would do better in court than Casterly Rock and would further Lannister influence. Unfortunately, King Robert was more fixed on the Targaryens than filling the small council.

"Lord Jon Arryn was a good and wise man," Pycelle said in his weak voice, his chains looking to weigh even more heavy around his neck. "One that will be deeply missed."

"He was the best of men," Robert said, deflating at the words. "But should the worst happen and Viserys Targaryen get his hand on the Golden Company and the Kingdom of the Three Daughters, they should muster thirty-thousand men to fight in their foreign horde. What would have Jon said to that?"

"That as long as they are on the other side of the Narrow Sea, they would be no threat to the realm," Stannis said with a voice as hard as granite. "He is wrong. They are a threat to the realm at large. Just their presence makes any Targaryen loyalist all the more willing to rise up. Should there be instability or a crisis in the realm, the Targaryens would be wise to launch their invasion just as the Blackfyres had done before."

"And their supporters would rise up against their liege lords," Robert grimaced. "There are many who still call me usurper, even after all these years. Near half the Seven Kingdoms fought for House Targaryen in the war. They bide their time now and give them half a chance, they will murder me in my bed and my sons beside me. Should the Beggar King cross with the Golden Company and Essosi support at his back, traitors will flock to him."

When Robert said 'sons,' Cersei couldn't help but notice the look Stannis gave her. It was only a flicker of a scowl, but she saw it. _Does he suspect?_ Stannis was a prickly sort and bound to his precious honour, but he was no fool. _Is he wise enough to know?_ If so, she would need to find a way to remove him soon as she could. Stannis was the biggest threat to Joffrey's future reign. Both Baratheon brothers were. In no doubt did Cersei believe when Robert was laid to rest on his deathbed, both Baratheons would rise up to dispose her children. Neither loved House Lannister. They were only interested in empowering themselves with lands and titles and positions.

"Should we send assassins, the Targaryens will be well protected by guards," Varys said gently. "Though I do fear should such a plot be discovered, it would cause relations to break down between ourselves and Pentos."

Robert spat. "I care not for the Free Cities. For hosting the Targaryens they have proven themselves as no allies of ours. I want them both dead. Viserys and that whore of a sister of his. Kill her before she breeds some more hatchlings for us to kill."

"Killing them now would be cheaper," Baelish smirked.

"This matter is very simple," Renly said with a casual shrug. "We ought to have killed both a long time ago when they weren't protected by cheese sellers. It might damage our relationship with Pentos, but it matters little. I prefer my cheeses from the Reach. They are softer on the tongue and smell less rank."

"What about offering a lordship? No doubt there is a plot of land that can be given to anyone courageous enough to be a dragonslayer," Littlefinger suggested with a slight smile, "regardless of birth?"

"Pate the pig boy can become a lord if he is brave enough," Robert declared.

"What about Ser Jorah Mormont?" Varys asked. "He is in my employ and begging for a royal pardon to return home."

"He is a slaver," Pycelle gasped, watery eyes widening to the size of eggs. "Lord Stark exiled him for a reason."

"And he can return to Westeros after aiding the realm," Littlefinger retorted. "He can prove himself a loyal servant of the crown by ridding the realm of a pair of dragons and no doubt a thankful king would allow him to return to his ancestral seat."

While that was going on, King Robert was staring at the large hands resting on the table before him. Cersei wondered if he was imagining strangling both Targaryens himself and just before Stannis put his voice forward, Robert declared, "He can receive his pardon if he brings me the pretender Viserys' head. And the sister. He will be remade Lord of Bear Isle. I want that written and sent as soon as possible."

"But surely Lord Stark—" Pycelle began when Robert rose a hand to cut him off.

"Lord Stark will be in no place to refuse. He is coming here, to King's Landing."

Cersei was confused. "Here? Your Grace, what is it you're saying?"

"I need a Hand, as you say, and I need someone loyal. Someone I can trust with my very life. A Hand who once walked with me against the fires of the Targaryens and an able brother in arms. I desire to head to Winterfell and meet my old friend. I want him as my Hand."

Cersei almost growled that he was a fool and heard Stannis grind his teeth across the table. _That cretin thinks he deserves that title_. Lord Stannis was an envious and proud man. No doubt such a decision had damaged what little warmth was between them. "But Lord Eddard Stark?" Cersei asked, trying to keep her rage under control. "Do you think that is wise, Your Grace? He's not of the Seven, he's of the North. My father, Lord Tywin, he would—"

"Quiet, woman," the king growled and gulping down his fifth cup so far. "You have no right to question the king."

"My lord father would be a better replacement for Lord Arryn. He's served as Hand and is held in most high regard. He knows—"

"You won't stop until a Lannister sits every position in the court," Robert growled, dark-blue eyes staring intensely at her with nothing but loathing. "I am no fool. Lord Stark will be my King's Hand and we are going to Winterfell, and soon. I'll hear no more of Lord Tywin Lannister."

Angry, Cersei stood up, patted down he dress and strode out.

* * *

A/N: A shorter chapter and one dealing with the goings on in Westeros just before the start of GOT. They don't know the Blackfyres are a thing, instead only believe Aegon's a Mopatis and soon to be married to Daenerys. Varys would manipulate what information comes in from the east so what they have is unreliable at best and nonexistent at worst. It also strikes me that Westeros in general seems to very insular and tend to ignore the goings on of Essos until it becomes blatant. I hoped you enjoyed this chapter and once more thank everyone reading. Until next time.

Comments:

TMI Fairy: 1: Cersei is a powerful authority and it isn't unknown for queens to be involved in matters of state, especially when they're from a powerful family, say the Lannisters. 2: The lord commander of the Kingsguard has a position in the small council and he'll be duty obligated to participate unless performing other duties. 3: Stannis fled King's Landing after King Robert went north. I would say his could be his last small council session. 4: For the titles, it was meant to be based on the Night's Watch vows so they shouldn't really hold titles, but kings are the final authority and can ignore that. 5: Cersei's being Cersei and dismissive of Stannis' military history to prop up her brother.

VladImpaler: Despite the Kingsguard vows are based on those of the Night's Watch, it should be possible for the king to install titles on the kingsguard. Jaehaerys did make his lord commander hand for a brief time. As a Warden is a military position, it would be more desirable for Jaime rather than a sickly child like Robert Arryn. The Vale were angry at the decision but didn't revolt, instead they continued calling Robin Warden of the East. It's not my best chapter, I'll admit. It's clunky so I'll try to improve those problems for future chapters.

NeedingOfLifeGoalDude: Westeros due to lack of direct interference, is still somewhat canon for now. It'll be changed as I plan for the Targ/Blackfyre alliance to strike earlier in the war so that'll shake up the game. House Darry was effectively wiped out early so unless something butterflied it away, it should be too late for House Targaryen to get them as supporters. Mooton is a craven but Maidenpool is a strategic position with it controlling the mouth of the Trident and is a wealthy town so it would be a prime location for a landing point. I do plan on Arya being 'rescued' by Aegon at Ned's execution. Ironic with him kidnapping the Lyanna lookalike when he complained about Rhaegar doing it.


	21. Interlude: The Dragon Princess

**Catalyst**

 **Interlude: The Dragon Princess**

* * *

The day was beginning to dawn when Daenerys Targaryen looked up from her book and yawned.

Light filtered through the stained-glass windows of the manse's library, filling the colourful cones of light with dancing motes of dust, swirling elegantly around her. The large chair before the hearth was sinfully soft and she wrapped herself in a snug blanket of sable imported from Westeros. After asking Doreah to light the hearth, Dany soon lost herself in the words.

Many of the books she had been given by Haldon were dull histories of Westerosi houses, annotated maps and books of law that exhausted the princess after only reading the first few lines. Septa Lemore had given her books of theology to study from and histories of the Faith such as the schism when Dorne cut ties with the High Septon and installed their own at Sunspear, claiming His Holiness in Oldtown and later King's Landing was a Targaryen puppet and not the true avatar of the Seven. Daenerys Targaryen had made a point to read the seven-pointed-star but besides the stories, she had grown bored of study. She enjoyed reading, but what she loved were adventures and romances, the exploits of her ancestors and fanciful tales rather than ponderous reads as dry as the parchments they were written on.

The princess covered another yawn with the back of her hand and looked over to where the fire had died down to an ember glow. _I must have been down here all night._

As of late, Dany was visited by queer dreams that left the princess unable to return to blessed slumber. They were always of dragons and fire. Once, Daenerys dreamt she was big and bloated, unable to walk, and Viserys was hitting her, hurting her. She was naked and clumsy with fear. She ran but couldn't run fast enough. " _You woke the dragon!"_ he screamed, " _You woke the dragon! You woke the dragon!"_ She had screamed and then Viserys ripped in two, filling her ears with a horrid cracking sound, and in his place was a dragon black as night with a pair of eyes as bright as stars. They found her, staring, unblinking. Then it breathed, it's flames spraying out in a hot jet. Her flesh crackled and blackened, bubbled and burnt. It fell from her bones and her blood boiled than steamed.

Dany had awoken, shaking and sticky with sweat.

It must have woken her bedmaid, because Doreah took Daenerys into her arms and whispered sweet comforts in her ear. But instead of sleeping, Dany felt restless and in need to stretch her legs. After wondering around the manse and sneaking down to the kitchens to help herself to some cheese and olives, she retired to the library. Haldon was always asking her to study politics but Dany wasn't interested in that. Instead of dates and going through the taxes King Daeron the Second issued that made many lords resent him, she read the exploits of Aegon the Conqueror, the epic love of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, and cried at the Dance of the Dragons.

Seeing the sun was finally here, Dany blinked. Her eyes were red and raw while her fingers were not without the cuts she had suffered from the parchment. The expansive room was full of dust from where the books had been left unused and unloved. Only a few visited the library and Illyrio Mopatis wasn't one of them.

Throwing the furs to the floor, she stood up. _I can't sleep. I could have, but I didn't_. The household servants were already up and preparing for the day, all curtsying but Dany paid them no mind. Upon returning to her chambers, she asked for Larra and Jhiqui to fetch water for the bathtub. As they prepared, Dany turned to the eggs laying in the open chest, all four lined up on the bed of fine damasks. For an instant, the candle reached over to touch them, the flame brushing the shells like a lazy finger. A thousand droplets of scarlet flame swam before her eyes, lasting barely a moment. Dany blinked and they were gone. _It is nothing_ , she told herself. _They are only stone. A gift from Magister Illyrio to buy more men. The dragons are all dead._ She pressed a palm against the black and red egg, fingers spreading out and running across the curve of the shell. The stone was warm. Almost hot. Dany pulled her hand away. _The candles. They must have warmed them up. Nothing more_.

The water was scolding hot. Irri and Doreah bathed her while Jhiqui laid out her clothes. It was known a princess should be surrounded by servants of high birth to add prestige to her person, but Daenerys didn't have Westerosi ladies and instead all her servants were slaves or former slaves. Both Irri and Jhiqui were gifts from Aegon after his victory against Khal Drogo. They were the closest things to noble ladies the Dothraki had, having been daughters of a Khal who'd been defeated by Khal Drogo in battle. They had the same copper skin, thick black hair and almond-shaped eyes. Both were pretty, though Jhiqui had wider hips and was broader than the slender Irri. The other two servants were Lysene, fair-haired and blue-eyed, both gifts from Magister Illyrio who brought them from pleasure houses. She had asked to keep them for herself and both had been relieved.

Daenerys knew she would need to replace them or risk being ostracised in Westeros. A Targaryen princess being served by bedslaves and Dothraki instead of highborn ladies would be considered improper. She didn't like that. She enjoyed their company and had grown attached to the four of them. _I'm a princess. It's expected of me to follow proper protocol. They are not expected to be proper ladies._ Viserys would urge her to remove them when he was king, maybe even before that. _I can still give them good matches. No doubt a minor lord or knight would take them as wives and treat them kindly._

Larra helped Daenerys out the bath, Jhiqui provided a fresh towel and Doreah presented the dress. Today, Dany was given a gown of sea-green samite decorated with baby pearls that rattled every time she moved, a pair of doe-skinned sandals that cuddled her feet after refusing some Myrish high-heeled shoes that made her almost topple over the last time she'd worn them, and a necklace of silver and amethysts.

They were combing her hair when Septa Lemore walked in, dressed in clothes more fit for a rich merchant's wife than the white robes of a septa. She still wore the crystal around her neck, however. The septa curtsied and the other handmaidens returned the gesture to the woman who became their unofficial leader. Looking her up and down, Septa Lemore smiled, the lines around her mouth deepening. "You look a true princess. A true Targaryen."

Dany was confused by the garbs, but she smiled at the compliment. "I thank you for the kind words, Lady Septa. I have a question I mean to ask of you. Do you know when Magister Illyrio intends to see me wed?" She was a maiden flowered and promised to marry Aegon to secure the allegiance of the Golden Company to her brother, yet no dates had been put forth for the wedding. Viserys didn't say anything, only that they needed to get the Golden Company and that when they were finally wed, she needed to please him. Doreah had been teaching Dany just that.

Septa Lemore shook her head, "I'm afraid only the magister knows when, Princess Daenerys. No dates have been put forward for the marriage, nor has anything else been said. I can't but think it would be for long. Both dynasties need to be tied together and His Grace is most eager to meet his army."

Dany nodded, fiddling with her hands.

Glancing at the handmaidens, Lemore continued, "I suggest you dress in more warmly garbs. I intend to take Princess Daenerys into Pentos."

Daenerys was confused. "Septa?"

Lemore smirked playfully at her. "I hope you don't intend to remain in the manse all your days. While it isn't unknown for many ladies to do so, I on the other hand love to explore and walk around. I have not left the manse in a while and do yearn to visit the markets of Pentos to see what curiosities the traders sell. In the grand bazaars you can find everything and Pentos, of all Free Cities, does have the most worshippers of the Seven."

"Are you sure that is wise, my lady?" Larra asked cautious. "Is Magister Illyrio—"

"He is aware. We won't be going alone. We'll be escorted by the legionnaires of Aegon's own century. They'll be led by Ser Rolly Duckfield. Aegon would have no one else."

"Is my betrothed coming with us?"

"I'm afraid to say he is not," Lemore said, her face flickering briefly. "I would wish that to be so, but Aegon is busy with private business with Master Vaquo. About what, I am unable to say, so you shouldn't see him until later. Fear not, you are in good hands."

The day was warm and cloudless as they travelled to the city in a gilded palanquin. Behind the curtains, the world was a golden yellow as Dany reclined with Lemore and her handmaiden. It was pleasant to lie back on soft cushions. Not once had she been allowed to leave the walls of where they were staying without Viserys looking over her. It made Dany feel giddy and fearless.

"Where are we going first?" Daenerys wondered as she nibbled on a sweetmeat. "The septs?"

"That will happen later. First, I mean to visit the markets. There is no knowing what you can find there and I do love seeing what the traders sell." Lemore grinned at her. She was handsome and had always been kind to Dany.

"I heard the Faith in Pentos is different from that of Westeros. Mind if I ask how?"

"I thought I gave you books on the subject. Have you not read them?"

"My apologies, Lady Septa. You did give me books, but I have not yet read them. You have given me plenty, yet I have only read the seven-pointed-star in full."

"Most are dull things, aren't they? I cannot blame you. When I was a mere novice, I cared little for reading. Instead I gossiped with the others and got no lack of scolding. It never stopped me. I was a wicked little thing." Lemore chuckled, picking herself a sweetmeat and taking a delicate bite. "While the High Septon likes to act like the Faith of the Seven is united in all things, that is not the case. I was brought up in Dorne and the Faith there is different than that of Oldtown and King's Landing."

"Dorne had its own High Septon and that caused conflict between the two."

"While there were differences even before the Schism of the Seven, the Faith in Dorne was much closer to Oldtown before the coming of Princess Nymeria. After the migration, the Faith grew influenced by the ancient Rhoynar. If you visit the Septry at Sunspear or that of Starfall, you can see Rhoynish iconography all over. It is not unknown for some, like the Orphans of the Greenblood, to keep faith with the Mother Rhoyne as well as the Seven, or even merging the two. More than once I have seen the Blessed Mother as the Mother Rhoyne with her on stained glass windows as a beautiful pregnant woman riding a large turtle, pouring crystal clear waters from an ewer to fill the world. While the Maiden is usually found holding a pomegranate for that's the fruit of fertility and is surrounded by fruits of all kinds, with a laurel of grapes crowning her head."

"I was never aware."

"You'll learn." Septa Lemore tapped her hand with calloused fingers.

"Septa, might I ask why you became one? I mean, I . . ."

The Dornishwoman laughed. "I never chose to become a member of the Faith, princess. I was born to a minor house of landed knights. My oldest sister was to inherit and I had a few brothers and sisters before me in the line of succession. My family wasn't all that wealthy, with only a slow running river feeding our plot of land. We were richer in sand and rocks than coin. After a harsh summer, my parents decided to send me to the nearest motherhouse. Give me a holy education, they said, less mouths to feed was the truth. I was the youngest, so I was sent." A flicker passed across her thin lips. "I was taught to read and sing and be pious, to make myself the servant of the Seven who are one."

"But you were wilful," Dany smiled slightly. "You said you were wicked."

"Very much so," the older woman said sorrowfully. "That was why I was kicked out. He was young and handsome, though with a slight limp from racing his horse when it fell upon him. A lesser knight sworn to House Toland, and a bastard besides. I was young and smitten and he . . . I was expecting and the Septa Supreme discovered after I tried to hide it."

Dany was lost for words.

"It is forbidden for those sworn to the Seven to have carnal relations. Women especially. Even in Dorne. I was beaten with a rod and called a wicked creature before being thrown out and left to fend on my own. I couldn't return home for I was dishonoured, and my sire would have chased me out if I carried a child out of wedlock. He was proud of his honour and to have a daughter like me, well . . ."

"I-I'm sorry, Lady Septa." _If you can be called that_. "Might I ask what happened to the babe?"

Pain washed over her face. "With the Mother Above now. He was born strong and lusty, than a sudden chill caught him. Babes can be born healthy but they are fragile little things. The world is a cruel place, princess. The septons say that it is the gods who decide but there are days I do question it, even if I shouldn't. It was afterwards where I sought solace in the seven-pointed-star unlike before."

"And how did you end up here . . . with Aegon?"

The septa snapped out of wherever she was. "Aegon? The Spider needed someone who knew the Faith and found me. I was a wandering around Westeros, a travelling septa who visited villages and towns and performed services they were unable to. I helped the sick and blessed more unions and babes than I dared count. I learned more in those years than I ever did walled inside the motherhouse and—oh look, we're here."

They entered the massive iron-studded Sunrise Gate that served as one of the three entrances through the stout brick walls. Despite the massive array of towers and battlements manned by the city watch, Pentos was regarded as the most vulnerable of the Free Cities thanks to restrictions placed on the Council of Magisters by Braavosi treaties. _Treaties that may soon be burnt._ While Daenerys wasn't told much, it was increasingly common to hear the council were taking a firmer stance against the Liberation Accords that had been signed in the last war against Braavos a hundred or so years past. After signing, the Pentoshi government was banned from trading slaves and their military was limited, only being allowed twenty warships that made them reliant on Braavosi patrols and forbade the hiring of sellsword companies. It was clear Magister Illyrio desired to burn the Accords and had grown closer ties to the Triarchy to achieve that, using them and the Golden Company as a political counterweight to threaten Braavos into not retaliating. From what Larra had said, as told to her from the groom who learned it from a Braavosi sailor, the Sealord didn't desire open conflict and was willing to commit to appeasement.

The city of Pentos was awash with colour. The palanquin passed beneath an ancient Valyrian arch that detailed the city's history from where it had been founded by merchants, traders and farmers from the Freehold as a trading outpost, the spread of the Andals who inhabited the land before, and dragons from where they must have been war. The city was crowded with square brick buildings towering above her, many pressed together like drunks after a night drinking, and market stalls took up every available space. Unlike the cities of Lys and Volantis, Valyrian blood wasn't seen the same way in Pentos. These were a mongrel people whose men dyed and oiled their hair and forked their beards. Pentoshi were lovers of song and festivities, generous to those who pleased them and renowned throughout the world for their masked balls. There were many Bravos as well, standing at the doors of shops in puffy sleeves and swords on their hips, patrolling like cats ready for a fight. Banners hanged from the walls and colourful cloth linked buildings across cobblestone streets. Elaborate fountains filled every square wrought in the shapes of beasts and men, while marble statues of Pentoshi princes and elected officials stood emotionless in public squares and buildings, all tall and majestic.

It was just a shame there was so many beggars around. Many used to work in the fields outside the walls but were forced to migrate to the city proper to look for work. Thanks to Aegon's machinery, there was less demand for workers. Those who were slaves were sold but those that were free found themselves evicted and left to fend for themselves. Now they crowded the streets begging for alms. It wasn't unknown for them to sell themselves or their families to passing slavers if they were dire enough. To deal with rising numbers of restless smallfolk, the Prince of Pentos had decreed more days of festivities and even free rations of grain and oil. _Bread and dancing bears_ , Dany thought, thinking of Aegon the Third's reign.

Pretty soon they stopped the palanquin outside one of the largest bazaars. It was surrounded by high brick walls and inside were warrens, animal pens, white-washed winesinks and gambling dens. Standing outside were two marble statues: the original two founders, their features weathered with age and paint all but gone. Inside swarmed thousands of people, with hundreds of merchants in the maze of stalls sheltered from the sweltering heat of the sun by dyed linen roofs. They teemed with everything and anything. It was a world where the east and west, the north and south collided, a strange assortment of sights and sounds and smells. There were merchants from ships and land caravans going as far as Vaes Dothrak and even the Empire of Yi Ti to the east, Westeros across the Narrow Sea and the Summer Isles to the far south.

Ser Duck pulled back the flap, dressed in mail with a green surcoat with a white duck emblazoned on his breast. He was a tall, brawny man with a shaggy ginger beard and a face used to smiling. The knight of ducks helped Septa Lemore than herself and lastly Doreah who blushed at him. Alongside the knight were other guardsmen, sellswords both young and old, fair and dark, comely and haggard. The men of the Golden Company wore oiled black mail and brigandines, with black cloaks and watchful eyes. A strikingly handsome man with golden hair smirked at her, tilting his head ever so slightly before another, a red-haired giant, wracked him in the back of the head with an open palm.

Taking in a deep breath, Dany let herself get lost in the smells of perfumes and scented oils that clashed against the sharp odours of garlic and pepper, sour wine and sizzling meat being cooked over open fires. The smells of days in the alleys of Tyrosh and Myr brought a fond smile to her face. A child aided his father carrying bolts of Myrish lace, giant smooth-faced eunuchs carried chests as easily as empty wicker baskets while dirty orphans darted beneath their legs, careful to remain out of sight from the city watch who patrolled in conical helms and suits of polished silver scales, with spears and cudgels resting on their hips. Her guards went ahead and some, Daenerys knew, were dressed like anyone else in the crowd. Duck had told Dany that her safety was of the highest concern and there would be no end to those willing to do her harm. Behind one stall was a pretty young woman with olive-skin selling Dornish spices and Dany enjoyed haggling before buying some dragon peppers and Dornish wine after a sample. Next, she examined the wares from a portly trader from Lannisport who sold exquisite goldwork from the Westerlands wrought into rings and brooches, torcs and other jewels. She brought a few rings and a necklace from the Westerman who took her for a Lyseni noble.

"You do look happy, my lady," Lemore said, careful to not use her true title. She was smiling.

"When I was a little girl, I loved to play in the bazaar," Dany told her, purple eyes going from one stall to another. "Like here, it was so alive but much more so. I was so tiny, and everything looked so much bigger and more exciting. All the people shouting and laughing with so many things to look at. It was exciting and unique. I wanted so much but we seldom had enough coin to buy anything . . . well, except for a sausage now and then, or honeyfingers. Are there honeyfingers in the Seven kingdoms, the kind they bake in Tyrosh?"

Lemore smiled. "No doubt in the ports of Oldtown and King's Landing. Though not as big as here, they have markets where Essosi sell their wares."

"What are honeyfingers?" Duck asked her. "A cake, are they?"

"Cakes." Dany giggled. "Small ones and slender. They are the best, especially when recently cooked. They are crusty on the outside but the inside is molten honey." She felt her mouth water at the memory. The one-time Viserys brought her a cluster, they feasted upon them by the side of the road. They were so sweet, and Dany could remember the flavour as if she'd just been eating them. "We need to find some. _Now_. That'll be our quest for the day." She smiled at them and led the way.

They found other things in plenty. Going from one stall to another, she felt like a girl again, where all her burdens of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. She found a beautiful feathered cloak and spent a few golden coins. They were worn by Summer Islanders and Dany knew Dalabhar would love it. He scared her with his cold eyes and expressionless voice, but Dany hoped to see him smile. A birdseller asked her name and taught it to a red-feathered parrot with rainbow wings. She laughed but refused to take him. That wasn't the only animal she saw, however. She barely walked a few steps before a white blur climbed up her arm and rested atop her head. It was a lemur, one of the ones from the Forest of Qohor. Little Valyrians, they were called for their silver-white fur and large purple eyes. It was only a baby as well and clung to her as the tradesman ran forward with beads of sweat on his face. Daenerys loved it, despite the initial shock. Doreah cooed over the little creature, and Dany giggled as it perched atop her head and played with her hair. Duck laughed and she brought him. _But what do I do with a lemur?_ Daenerys also brought flasks of scented oils that were of her childhood, she had only to close her eyes and take a sniff of them to remember the house with the red door once more. As a gift to Lemore, she brought 'Seventy-Seven Verses of the Mother's Hymns.' When Doreah looked longingly at a fertility charm at a magician's booth, Dany brought that too and thought about buying Larra and her Dothraki handmaidens something as well. Lastly, she brought Ser Duck an ivory comb. The guards laughed, none more loudly than Rolly himself.

"Oh look!" Daenerys cried, grabbing Doreah's arm, and pointed to a flat-faced woman with yellow and red dyed hair selling a collection of treats. "There they are!" She didn't need to be told twice and practically dragged her handmaiden forward. There were many treats before her. Cakes of cooked apples, cream and honey, oats and blackberries and pinenuts, berry tarts and honeycombs, jams and biscuits. But it was the honeyfingers that stood out. Delighted at the discovery, Dany insisted everyone else enjoy them with her and near brought the whole batch. They were freshly cooked; the outside still soft and hot honey ran sticky down her fingers. It was just as she remembered, and Dany allowed herself some more, giggling all the while.

"It is nice to see you smile, my lady," Doreah said, fiddling with the charm now around her neck. "It is good to see."

Dany smiled shyly. It was sweet to laugh. She felt like half a girl again.

When Lemore had enough, they escorted Daenerys out the bazaar and back to the palanquin but instead of returning to the manse, they continued through the city, visiting bakers and tradesmen, buying wares and handing out alms to the poor. The septa told her how a noble lady should act, how that it was their duty to provide charity. It was the duty of a servant of the Seven and, as royalty, it was Dany's duty to perform that charge even more as someone for others to aspire to. Dany could understand and made a point to do so. After being on the run with Viserys across the Free Cities, she felt kinship with the poor and unfortunate. Together, they visited the septs in the Westerosi enclave of the city, orphanages and hospitals, prayed to the Seven for the sick and the souls of the deceased. To those that were starving, she gave them bread, to those cold she offered clothes. Comfort to those alone, kinship to widows and even played with a group of orphans she wanted to take into her service but a sympathetic Lemore said that may not be for the best. Donations were given to the faithful servants of the Seven but also to the Red Temple, who provided the same services to the needy but were the dominant faith and had more to tend for as a result. Both the septons and the red priests thanked her for the donation, complimented her piety and prayed for her soul in their own ways, promising her sins were forgiven and that the gods bless her.

That took the greater part of the day and when they finally returned to Illyrio's manse, the sky was getting dark. While Daenerys gave plenty to those in Pentos, she still came back with plenty of gifts for her handmaidens, servants and others within the manse. Dany even brought Viserys a few things she hoped he would like, such as a curved knife with an ivory handle and gilding. He had knives but Viserys did love gold.

Not long after returning to her room, Dany was asked to be presented before her brother in the solar. It was a round chamber of brown marble and had a tall vaulted ceiling. Circling the room were engaged columns and covering the floor was a plush Myrish carpet so soft and springy that it felt like she was walking atop the clouds. It a room designed to impress, and certainly impressed Daenerys Targaryen. Standing by the door was Ser Jorah Mormont, dressed in mail with a surcoat emblazoned with the black bear of his house, while Viserys was waiting impatiently and had decided to closely inspect the erotic mosaics and vivid tapestries.

"Brother," Dany said meekly, curtsying to her king and brother.

"Sister," was Viserys' brusque reply. He was dressed handsomely in a black and scarlet doublet, with slashed sleeves to reveal the red underneath. Black boots, polished to high sheen, went up to his knees and his hair had been neatened, flowing to his shoulders in a silver-gold shower. The time in Illyrio's manse had softened Viserys' formerly gaunt face but his pale-lilac eyes remained just as feverish and nervous. He inspected her and, after a moment, spoke. "You disappeared."

"I joined Septa Lemore and Doreah to the city. We went to the market and afterwards provided the smallfolk with charity. It is the duty of a princess and a follower of the Seven to help those less fortunate." _And I need to present myself as a faithful princess for Westeros_. Haldon stressed how important it was to have the right image to surround herself with. The smallfolk and many lords would look more favourably upon her and Viserys by extension should she be of high moral character.

"They are not our people. You should never have left these walls. It was unsafe and you should have asked your king before doing so."

 _You would have declined. You always would_. "O-of course, Your Grace." She bowed her head submissively. Than she remembered the present she was about to give him. "Sweet brother, I have something. Here." She pulled out the knife and presented it to him, smiling shyly. "I hope you accept the gift, if it pleases you."

He only gave the gift a quick glance, "Blacksmith's leavings. I have many knives already. Why do I need another?" He patted the dagger on his hip. "This was a gift from the brother of the Archon of Tyrosh. It is Valyrian steel with a handle of ebony and the end shaped like a dragon. Why do I need one from you?"

"I-I only thought . . ." Why did he have to be so cruel?

He stepped forward, his hand going under her chin to lift it up so that she was looking into his face. "I trust them not, sweet sister. I trust none of them. Not the magister, not the boy and none of those who surround them. Not the men whose swords will give us the Iron Throne."

"W-what about Ser Connington. He—"

"He is no different. The Knight of Griffins may claim to be loyal to our house and was close to our brother, but he still abandoned us. When we were surviving on the charity of others, hiding and fleeing from the Usurper's knives, they were hiding on a poleboat. While we slept on the streets and shivered in the cold, that Blackfyre was surrounded by allies and teachers who coddled and taught him everything they knew. We fought to survive, always hungry, always running. He has _this_. They claim to be loyal, yet the Golden Company insulted us and only now have they claimed allegiance despite everything." He frowned, face twisting in fury. "We are little more than pawns to the Blackfyre ambitions. They have never turned their sights away from Westeros nor the Iron Throne, only waited in the shadows."

Daenerys didn't know what to say. Her brother was correct. While she and Viserys had been hiding and living on scraps, Aegon was sheltered and protected by Jon Connington of all people. _He should have been with us, not him_. Aegon said Connington was led to believe he was Rhaegar's son, but there was no excuse for leaving the Targaryens to fend for themselves, not with all the coin Illyrio Mopatis showered upon them. Dany had to say something though. "He is helping us now. I have no doubt they have their own reasons, but they know they cannot fight the Usurper by themselves. They even proclaimed you king, Viserys. They had sworn oaths to the Seven and all the other gods they believe in. Their word is good as gold. The Golden Company has never betrayed anyone."

"They never betrayed anyone," Viserys agreed, "But they also swore a vow to install a Blackfyre on the Iron Throne. What happens when Aegon Blackfyre decides he is more worthy than myself and proclaims his intent to see me dead? Who do you think the Golden Company will support? They may proclaim me king of Westeros but what are recent oaths compared to those ushered ages past? Words are wind, sweet sister, and the wind shifts and turns."

It was only than that Ser Jorah spoke, "Illyrio believes in no cause but Illyrio. Gluttons are greedy men as a rule, and magisters are devious. Illyrio Mopatis is both. The Golden Company owes their fealty to Aegon Blackfyre and it is the magister who is financing them and the entire campaign. It would be wrong to trust any of them. They are dangerous."

Viserys nodded. "They have their uses. I'll admit that. We need an army and despite my distrust of them, we do need their swords. Let us hope you are married soon and then we can launch our invasion of Westeros. No doubt the Usurper is aware of our intentions. Even the most ignorant are not blind enough to not see what's going on across the Narrow Sea. We need to attack and soon. I cannot wait much longer. The Usurper sits father's throne, corrupting the realm with his presence. Every day that passes, the less support we can command. Illyrio tries to delay, but for what?"

"You have been waiting for years, Your Grace," Mormont stated. "Most of your life you have. What are only a few more months? Maybe another year or so. I do counsel you to be patient. Despite their previous attempts, the Golden Company are knowledgeable when it comes to launching invasions. One just has to look at their history. They will seek to win the Iron Throne and choose the best time to do so. A wise king is patient and not rash. Do not presume to beg Blackheart."

Viserys bristled. "Guard your tongue, Mormont, or I will have it out. I am king and you are an exile. Do not lecture me on what I should and shouldn't do. I am a dragon and a dragon doesn't beg." Ser Jorah lowered his eyes respectfully and Viserys' gaze turned back to his sister.

"Has Doreah been teaching you?"

Dany blushed. Doreah hadn't only been selected to be her handmaiden, but a tutor to teach her the womanly arts to please her future husband. It had been Illyrio who suggested it and Viserys had been grudgingly, until Doreah was sent to warm his bed.

Without her saying a word, Viserys smiled thinly. "Hopefully those skills can be put to good use. If you can persuade your future husband to work in the interests of House Targaryen, all the better. Has he been interested?"

"H-he . . . I do not know. My betrothed seems to lack interest."

"He may be a sword swallower than." Viserys rolled his eyes. "What could I expect from degenerate Essosi? If so, this is a waste but— _actually_ , it may even be preferable. Once I sit the Iron Throne, we can deal with the Blackfyres and their allies. The lords will prefer a maiden over a traitor's leavings."

Dany swallowed. _Does he mean . . ._

She didn't have time to finish the thought when there was a knock on the door and Aegon entered, a mild smile on his face and trailing behind was Ser Duck with a sword on his hip and a green cloak draped from his shoulders. "Princess Daenerys, Your Grace." He inclined his head.

"Why are you here, Blackfyre?" Viserys demanded, folding his arms and staring at Aegon with naked malice. Her brother hated her betrothed, it was clear to see. "We were expecting Magister Illyrio."

Aegon, however, didn't seem to care. He only turned to her, a slight smirk on his face and purple-blue eyes sparkling. Aegon was more inclined to smirk than smile, chuckle rather than laugh. He spoke smoothly, his voice melodious, rising and falling like he was weaving a song. There was an accent to his voice she couldn't quite pick up on. It wasn't something she heard before and none of the others seemed to truly know. It was strange. "What a shame. My father is in the middle of business with some important associates of his regarding the insurance of his ships. As he can't see you, I've come in his stead and I bring the both of you a gift. One that had once belonged to the last _true_ queen of the Seven Kingdoms. We had received it this very morning, just after Daenerys left the manse. Me and father thought it would be most improper to return it to His Grace when Princess Daenerys wasn't here to bear witness."

Her brother rolled his eyes. "What is it, Blackfyre? Do you have something to offer or not?"

A flicker of a frown appeared on his face before it once more turned into a smile. Unlike Viserys who dressed in plush velvets, silks and rubies, Aegon Blackfyre dressed humbly in a simple black tunic made of lambswool, with no decoration besides a studded belt that held his dirk. He tended to dress humbly, and his hair didn't look like it had been done, leaving it a mess of silver-gold curls.

"I almost forgot. It was kind of His Grace to remind me, else I wouldn't know I was holding this." The Blackfyre pulled out a wooden box he'd been holding behind his back, went on his knees and opened it up. "A gift to the last Targaryens: a queen's crown. Once more, I apologise for the timing but—"

Daenerys only stared; her eyes fixed on the circlet laid atop a plush silken cushion. It was delicate, made of softest silver, beautifully twisted and crusted with tiny pearls, diamonds and amethysts. "Mother's crown . . ."

"Queen Rhaella's crown," Aegon confirmed, his face going solemn. "It was only a matter of luck our agents discovered it being sold by a certain merchant in Volantis. My sire realised who it belonged to and thought it would make a splendid addition. I know how much it means to the both of you and hope it could serve as a gift to put aside our past grievances. No doubt you hated to part with it. Daenerys told me what happened."

Viserys only stared at the crown and Dany could swear there were tears in the corners of his eyes. She hadn't seen him cry for a while. He would get angry at her and the world and would fume but said dragons couldn't cry. He had cried when he was little though, many times he did but those tears had dried and only his anger remained. Now though . . . Dany moved close to him and slid her hand in his. Viserys' hold tightened around her, firm and clammy as he continued to stare.

"We sold it," were his words, so soft that she almost misheard them. "We were starving and had nothing. We were on the streets and . . ." He angrily brushed his eyes which were growing increasingly red. "I avoided it as much as I could, until I could barely stand. The . . . _he_ cheated us. He knew how desperate we were and brought it cheaply. The coin didn't last long."

Aegon nodded sadly. "Tis so. I know you have lost your brother, father and mother. A cruel fate to befall anyone. We should have helped you earlier. I'll admit that now, before the both of you. We wish to make peace and know we can't change the past nor return any of your relatives. But at least we can return something that once belonged to them." _And the Iron Throne_ , his eyes seemed to say. "Would you like to hold it? No doubt your mother would like you to."

Viserys took a deep breath. His usually pale face was a deep red and his lilac eyes looked ready to pour. He stayed fixed, however. Dany was too scared to hold it. She supposed she should feel happy to have it back after so long, but all she felt was sadness. Daenerys didn't know the woman who birthed her, only remembered her crown from when she was little and what it meant. There were times Viserys placed it atop her head and would say she'll be queen. That she'll be _his_ queen.

With Viserys not moving, Dany removed herself from him and slowly took the crown in her delicate hands, scared she might break it. It was smaller than she remembered, and it felt like if she were to apply the slightest pressure, it would snap. "It is beautiful. On behalf of House Targaryen, both me and my brother thank you. In our deepest heart you have our thanks." Standing on the tips of her toes, she kissed him on the cheek. It was a light peck but when she pulled away, a redness crept up on his cheeks and Dany couldn't help but giggle. That only caused the Blackfyre's cheeks to grow a deeper crimson. His cheeks did have a propensity to blush.

He coughed, trying to regain some composure. "I'm glad you love it, princess." He smiled shyly and for once looked uncomfortable and shifted awkwardly. Dany found it sweet. "If I may—"

He didn't have time to finish when Viserys swept him up in a hug.

Aegon was taken aback and struggled but, after a second or so, relented. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," was all Viserys repeated over and over again. He tightened the embrace and Aegon, clearly hesitant, gave him a brusque pat on the back. Her brother than started mumbling words Daenerys could neither hear nor understand and, from his expression, neither could Aegon. Eventually they pried apart and Viserys turned once more to mother's crown, lifting it up and examining it closely. He smiled with both joy and sorrow that tugged at her heart. "I don't know what else I can say . . ."

"Then don't say anything, Your Grace," Aegon said, bowing his head. "I . . . I must take my leave . . ."

"What happened to him?"

"To whom?"

"The merchant. How much did he demand for it?"

"He . . . Magister Illyrio was honest and told me he was reluctant to sell after our agents accused him of stealing. He was . . . _encouraged_ to return it freely." Aegon glanced away awkwardly, chewing his bottom lip.

Viserys nodded reluctantly. "That so. I can't say we'll be saddened by the news. At least it has returned to us now. Mother's crown now once more belongs to it's rightful owners. Aeg—I didn't think I would ever say this, but you have my thanks, and that of House Targaryen." He smiled a sad smile and Dany remembered the brother she had, the one who held her tight and let her cry into his chest and tell her stories of dragons, the one who protected and sheltered her. Not the brother who grabbed and struck her when she did wrong. "I might even be wrong about you. The schism between our houses should end, the tear mended in due time. There might even be a time when I call you brother."

* * *

A/N: So here is the latest chapter and I hope you've enjoyed it. After so long, Rhaella's crown has returned to the Targs. While it might be hard tracking down a crown in a landmass like Essos, I can see someone like Illyrio with all his resources and contacts being capable of such a feat. I wasn't sure how Viserys would react to seeing it again but I assume he would let his guard down in the moment. Daenerys said that selling mother's crown was the thing that made him lose the last shred of kindness he had so it clearly meant a lot to Viserys.

I would just like to thank everyone who've reviewed, followed and favourited. This fic has broken a thousand followers and eight-hundred favourites, as such, I'm thankful to the lot of you. Next chapter should have the eggs hatch.

Comments:

Najex: I dislike writing one-note characters. Both Aegon and Viserys distrusting each other but unwilling to make the first move would be an interesting scenario to explore. While Aegon is the figurehead, Illyrio and the Golden Company have the power to override him and are working on their own schemes without his approval.

osterreicher97: Yea, the crown was the last thing he sold and a part of him died with it. It might be the beginning of something of a path of redemption or just a one-time thing. I didn't show his pov and with unreliable characters, Viserys could have been lying or be perfectly honest. I wanted the scene to expand Viserys' a bit more because, while being horrible to Dany in canon, he did face a lot. If he didn't have to face all the hardships, I can easily imagine him being a decent or good brother to her.

VladImpaler: I do think Viserys has the capability of being smart. He was correct about a few things in canon and did teach Daenerys a lot. To me he seems more misinformed and overly emotional, not to mention arrogant, than stupid. He had a princely education for his early years, and I doubt Darry would have ignored continuing it though it wouldn't have reached the same standard.

NeedingOfLifeGoalDude: I can imagine Viserys being too overcome with seeing his mother's crown that he let his guard down and not care in that moment for he's so happy to have it back. Viserys is committed to having a Westerosi bride and depending who that is, would aid in the invasion. Should it be Dorne, that'll provide a powerbase in a defensible location and somewhere to easily land men and supplies from across Essos through Planky Town. There are other locations as well, and the GC should do well provided they maintain superiority at sea. Are you referring to a Viserys Arya marriage? Such a union provides nothing for Viserys in any way (Robb won't bend the knee nor provide troops) and even if he does do it for some awful reason, Viserys will have to wait like seven years before she's old enough to bed.


	22. Chapter 18: How to Hatch your Dragons

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 18: How to Hatch your Dragons**

* * *

"He was going to betray us," the magister told me over a couple of drinks.

I looked up from my untouched lemon water to study the fat man across the room. There was something about Illyrio Mopatis that screamed sociopath. I never really trusted what he said, both as a reader and then living the story I found myself in. He was a man who'd happily ignite war on multiple continents, killing hundreds of thousands without remorse, all the while indulging in mindless hedonism. Jorah was right. Illyrio cared for none but Illyrio.

We weren't the only ones in the room. Crowding the chamber were the officers of the Golden Company. Some of whom had nothing to loss and everything to gain, while others were more cautious but that didn't eliminate the threat they posed. Lysono Maar stood in the corner with half his face coated in shadows, fiddling with one of his earrings. Homeless Harry sat next to Illyrio, red-faced from wine; his stubby fingers brushing the rim of a gilded goblet half full of Arbor Gold. Blackheart sat with his legs spread, leaning forward in a padded jack bearing his namesake held aloft by a pair of black wings. At the door, barring anyone from leaving, was Dalabhar in full legionary kit and horsehair crested helm, his thick arms folded behind his back.

Despite their number, I felt alone and isolated. Duck was forced to wait outside. Lyra was barred as well, and Vaquo wouldn't have come even if he was allowed. Neither Lemore nor Haldon could attend, and Jon Connington was in the Disputed Lands. It made me wonder if Griff was even aware this was taking place. It wouldn't have surprised me if they ordered Jon south to keep him out the loop.

Maar chuckled darkly, raising a thin sardonic eyebrow before saying, "Oh really? Because Viserys Targaryen just struck me as so trustworthy. Must have been his eyes."

I found it most improper, and more so when a few officers snickered or showed a brief smile, though the expressions were gone quickly enough. The room was tense, but not unexpected considering what happened. Still, none of them looked that upset. Despite Viserys Targaryen being little loved by the Company, they could have at least made the effort to treat him more respectfully. "May I ask what was the manner of His Grace's death?"

"His Grace? Viserys Targaryen was no king. Never was. It was a title he bestowed upon himself. Nothing more," Blackheart's voice was flat, expressionless.

"You haven't answered my question, captain-general."

It was Homeless Harry who answered after taking a sip of his drink. "Prince Viserys was a foolish fool. At sunset he rode out into the city for a local wine sink he had grown accustomed to visiting. No doubt to drink himself into a stupor. He was found dead with multiple stab wounds to the chest. Not only him. Alongside his corpse was the body of Ser Tommen Westmare – a true knight whose house served alongside us in exile since the days of Daemon the Black Dragon – and our precious Ser Jorah having disappeared. One doesn't have to think all that hard to come to certain conclusions."

"Are you saying Ser Jorah Mormont killed him?" Harry nodded slowly and I gritted my teeth. "Did you find the culprit?"

"We did. Mormont was caught trying to flee the city at the docks. He had bribed a merchant galley to accept him as an oarsman but was accosted by the city watch after the bell was called. Two died confronting him. Now he's rotting in the darkest cell of the city's dungeons."

"And questioned?"

"Sharply. He's been stubborn and professed innocence but will soon confess to being a kingslayer who begged a pardon from King Robert Baratheon, as well as the return of his former lordship of Bear Island. The Spider informs us that's what Robert offered for the head of Viserys and that of your future wife. What better way to get close to a king than act the false bodyguard and assassinate him at the opportune moment?"

I was no fan of Ser Jorah Mormont, that must be said, but I was surprised he would murder the Beggar King. The exiled knight didn't like Viserys all that much, but would he kill him, even for a prize as big as Bear Island? _He did sell Daenerys' information but that doesn't compare. Then again, he did sell children into sexual slavery . . ._ I couldn't help but wonder though. _Schemes within schemes within schemes_.

"Ser Jorah is the one who did it," my father added for confirmation as if such a thing was needed. "His Grace was safe inside my manse. With its high walls and grounds guarded by Unsullied, it is the most secure location in all Pentos. No assassin of King Robert could have touched him here. He was most vulnerable out in the city, the poor dragon prince."

"An idiot dragon prince," my adjutant said, his voice as rough as the sound of a saw on wood. "Ser Jorah Mormont began worming his way close to Viserys during the dance and was at his side since. It was most likely planned from the start. One doesn't survive being an exile without becoming patient. As of now, King Robert Baratheon has decapitated a head off the three-headed dragon."

"I would rather say snake, but that's personal presence," Maar chuckled. "At the end of the day, we have lost an important resource that could have proven beneficial but the loss of it is not going to halt our operations."

 _You don't sound that perturbed, do you?_ Not that I was expecting much different. Viserys was only a pawn. He was always a pawn that was to be disposed of whenever advantageous, be it serving as a fall guy or an antagonist for me to fight. That was the plan but honestly, ever since returning Rhaella's crown, he seemed to be improving. Oh, there were days where he was still a twat, but he seemed to be getting better. He didn't seem so cruel to Daenerys and acted more cordial in my presence. I couldn't help but feel sympathetic upon handing them the crown and saw the young man almost ball his eyes out, though the invasive hug was not all that desired. _That was perhaps who he could have been and not the man he became_.

I shouldn't be thinking emotionally. Not here, not now. It was not a luxury I could afford and instead thought about how it'll affect the future. There were a few benefits to Viserys' death I could not deny. Robert sending an assassin, as was claimed, would no doubt anger lords like Lord Eddard Stark who looked down upon hired knives. It would also ignite anger and demands for retribution within the Reds. With Daenerys being Viserys' heir, she would be declared the true queen of the Seven Kingdoms and require a regent, say Connington, installed until she came of age. Sooner or later we'll be married, and our children will carry the claims of both houses. If both Targaryens had died, as Robert desired, that'll sure up my claim as the last contender of the Targaryen bloodline – excluding the Baratheons and Maester Aemon – and leave me open for a Westerosi marriage. Whoever planned this made my position more secure. If it was Robert, I doubt he knew what he was doing.

"What happened has proven it is now time," Myles announced, "Viserys' death has proven Targaryen exceptionalism doesn't extend to immunity to knives and I pray this is a warning to all of us. The marriage should happen and soon. Marry the girl and start securing the line by giving her some little hatchings to suckle from her teats. Unite the branches, unite the claims, secure the line."

"We should give Daenerys some time to mourn for her brother first. We can't seem too heartless by organising the marriage shortly after her own brother's death. The Faith says there should be seven days and seven nights of mourning at the very least. I think it should be a bit more. It'll look less suspicious."

"Do you believe we did it?" Harry asked me.

"I do think it is a passing strange." _And awfully convenient_.

"Things like this happen," Illyrio Mopatis told me. "It was Robert and we need to move forward. When the grieving sister is done crying, you will wed her and bed her. Daenerys has bled and if she is old enough to bleed, she is old enough to breed."

 _She is a child!_ I wanted to scream at him. Those words won't mean shit to them. They had no objections to impregnating an underage girl and should said girl die from compilations, she'll be easily replaced by another. _So continues the pattern_. I couldn't deny them, but I could delay the consummation until a later date. "And what if Daenerys refuses such an arrangement, my lords?"

"She won't refuse," Illyrio said in the most ominous tone possible. "She holds no power here."

 _Just wait till she has dragons, mate, then you'll see the shoes on the other foot_. "Aye. Because you exiled Connington who could have helped her should that come to pass." He tried to put Rhaegar's son on the throne, but I destroyed that and made him go down the road of despair. Now the brother was dead and only Daenerys remained. If anything would give Jon Connington peace of mind, it was to put the sister on the throne as consort or regnant. _And revenge. That man knows hate. It fuels him_.

"Connington is no fool," the griffin's boyfriend said with a hard pale-green stare. "We have made up our minds. He is to serve as regent until you come of age as king in your own right. The king that Westeros needs after so long under the disastrous reigns of false lords, usurpers and weak men. A true king that will return Westeros to greatness."

"I have no way of refusing, do I?"

"None at all," Illyrio scolded me. "I am your father and you'll do as I say. If I tell you to marry a princess, you will do so. If I tell you to marry a crippled old woman to get me her inheritance, you will do so. You live under this roof, you are my blood, you will do as I say. Count yourself lucky that Daenerys is a fair creature, even if she is simpleminded."

"Yes . . . _father_." _Fuck you, you walking piece of lard_. I did not care for myself in this arrangement, but I did for her. Daenerys held little power for herself and was treated little more than a tool by everyone around her. _Perhaps he wishes me to become a widow when she becomes useless like when the war ends_. I could see it in his pig eyes.

"Good lad," Harry Strickland said with a broad smile. "Be an obedient boy and keep your head down. Do so and this will turn out well. You are in good hands."

 _And your words just fill me with confidence_.

 **...**

When our meeting was done, I couldn't take my leave fast enough. Away from the rest of them, I pressed my back against the wall, took a deep breath and angrily ran a hand through my hair.

"Fucking dammit," the words came as a growl from the back of my throat. _Screw Illyrio, screw Jorah and screw everyone else. Why does this world just love actively working against me?_ I had plans for Viserys and they involved him of actually being of some use, with myself as the puppet master for the early part of the Westerosi campaign. There were much more subtle ways to remove Viserys than him bleeding to death in the street, like in the middle of a battle or having an undiagnosed peanut allergy. There was always the option of him truly being king if he worked away from being an arse like he was in canon. But none of those would come to be.

 _Now I need to renew my schemes. Again!_ Unless some highborn lady wanted to marry a corpse, I could no longer use Viserys to build up alliances for the war effort. Nor could I use him as a convenient excuse should I need to commit a few necessary war crimes to ensure victory. I mean, he was the perfect scapegoat for such a thing. It's not like Viserys was the most pragmatic person in the world, and should I need to perform a few terror tactics, I could easily claim they were the commands of the Mad King's son. Not me, I'm just the sweet innocent Blackfyre who fought hard against it. That won't be happening now.

After massaging my forehead and taking a few deep breaths, I straightened myself, cleared my mind and approached Daenerys' chambers. No doubt she heard the news and would need someone to talk and comfort her in this troubling time. I knocked on the door and waited.

No answer.

I waited for a moment before listening closely to make sure she was on the other side. Upon hearing a soft noise, I knocked once more. "Dany. It's me, Aegon . . . Blackfyre." _Go ahead and give the name of her ancestral enemy after her brother was murdered in the streets why don't you? I'm sure that's the first thing she'll want to hear_. When it didn't open, I sighed and turned on the balls of my feet, took a few steps forward only for the door to open behind me.

Turning around, I was met with a red-faced Daenerys Targaryen pressed against the door frame. Her eyes were puffy and tear stains ran down her cheeks. She was wrapped in a blanket, though underneath she only looked to be wearing her nightclothes. Never once had Dany looked more like a lost girl in that moment and when she tried to say my name, let out a muffled sound. "I-I . . . I wasn't expecting you."

"I came to see how you were," my voice was gentle. Thankfully the hall was empty, giving us both much needed privacy. "I only received the news of what happened. You don't look well." _You don't look well? Seriously, brain? Are you blind or just stupid? Look at her! I doubt those are tears of joy at your presence._ "Come, let me escort you inside. We don't need the servants seeing everything." _They'll only gossip about it_.

Dany nodded and, taking her hand in mine, gave it a gentle squeeze before leading her inside where I closed the door behind us. As soon as it shut, Daenerys wrapped her arms around me in an impossibly tight embrace and pushed me against the door where she sobbed into my chest.

Instinctively, I returned the hug. It would be wrong to say, horrible if I was being honest, but there was something about having a very pretty girl in my arms that I enjoyed. There was just something so tragically beautiful with her willing to be emotional vulnerable. It only made me want to hug her until she felt better and did so, tightening the embrace and letting her rest her head against the crook of my neck. The bad thing, however, was that Daenerys was using my shirt as a handkerchief.

We remained there for what felt like forever before I led Dany towards the bed and sat on the end with her beside me. "I loved him," the girl's voice was soft, little more than a whisper. "He was my brother. My last brother. R-Rhaegar . . . h-he died before I was born. His children as well. I am the last Targaryen." The way she spoke, the way she looked, was heart-breaking.

Taking a deep breath, I wondered on what to say and do. I was never good at talking to distressed people or the whole mourning thing. I had my own fair share of death, more than that, but I actively suppressed any emotions regarding them. That was the only way I managed to get this far. Taking a breath, I wrenched myself from her hold. Daenerys' eyes were swollen and puffy, and the rising blood in her face made her skin blotchy. She looked so helpless. Instead of letting her wet my shirt anymore, I pulled out a silken cloth. "Dry your tears, princess. You must be strong. You are the last dragon. Neither Rhaegar nor Viserys would want you looking like this."

Giving a weak nod, Daenerys agreed though looked nowhere close to accomplishing it.

I summoned her handmaidens to fill a tub and bring fresh clothes. She was a princess, the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms and last of her line. She couldn't be seen crying, especially for how the world valued strength and the belief women lacked it. The last thing the officers needed to believe was Daenerys as weak. The handmaidens rushed forwards, face downcast and paying sympathies, brought out flesh clothes and added sweet scents to the water.

Dany turned to me; her eyes still red though the stream had dried. I cupped her cheeks which were feverishly hot in my palm and, with a calloused thumb, wiped away a stray tear. "Thank you."

"For what?"

The Targaryen princess didn't say anything. Instead she stood on her toes, leaned in and pressed her lips against mine, our noses bumping. They were soft and plump, moulding against mine so perfectly it didn't seem real. It felt like a dream. My first kiss . . . _This is wrong. This is so wrong. She is a child. A child who is grieving for her brother_. She pressed herself against me, deepening the kiss. It was wet, clumsy and awkward. There was the salt of her tears on my lips and she grew more desperate, more fervent.

I gently pushed her away. Dany looked hurt, making me feel strangely guilty. "We can't. Not now."

"W-why? Why not?" Her voice grew stronger but with all the grief it cracked.

"You are grieving. We shouldn't be doing this." _There are names for men who take advantage of women when they are vulnerable, but I shall never rightfully be called any of them_. "You are not thinking clearly, and I care about you too much to take advantage of you like that. It is a line I will not cross." No doubt some of my friends will think differently on the matter. Even Duck might give me strange looks if I refused someone on her level. The worst part was that I wanted to. It made me feel dirty.

The princess only stared at me, eyes flickering for a moment before brushing them with the back of her hand. "Mayhaps you should wait outside. It would be most improper for you to remain here."

"Of course, princess. Get yourself cleaned up." Bowing my head, I headed off. Knowing Daenerys would need some space from me with what just happened and instead of dwelling on it, I devoted time to sparring. I fought Duck with sword, mace and polearm for a few hours until I was sweating and bruised in more than a dozen places. It wasn't just to exercise, but to vent my anger at everything around me. I didn't feel any better for it.

Upon returning to talk to her once more, Daenerys turned to me from her vanity. She wasn't dressed like a princess, only in a plain lambswool tunic with no jewellery or ornament. Wavy hair, still damp and shining, went down her back in a silver shower. A bowel of fruit had been laid out before her, but it'd been left uneaten. She looked better, having cleaned up and somewhat calmer.

"Princess," I said, bowing my head politely. She smiled sadly and dismissed her handmaidens who curtsied and left, mumbling gentle words. "Are you feeling any better?"

"A little," she admitted. "When will the funeral be?"

"On the morrow or the day after. The red priests are cleaning his body and making it presentable, as is the custom. Your brother is going to have a traditional funeral in the manse, his body placed in the pyre like the Targaryens of old." _And hatch the dragons from stone . . ._

"It would be wrong if that's not the case. Even the Usurper allowed Rhaegar's body to be burned in the pyre despite everything. Viserys, he is my brother and—was the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms."

"He proclaimed you his heir," I said softly. "That would make you the rightful queen."

Daenerys Targaryen stared at me with large purple-eyes before looking down at my feet. "I am, aren't I? If I am being honest, I don't want to be. I have no desire to be queen. Westeros is not a land I know. It's not even a land I remember. Sometimes, when I look out into the brick streets of Pentos, I see children playing barefoot and breathless. There were times I wanted to be one of them. What I want - what I truly want—"

"Is what?"

"Home. The house with the red door and a lemon tree growing outside my widow. I want a brother who cares for me, someone to protect me. I want somewhere to belong." Her voice grew stronger. "I do not wish to run from place to place. I am sick of hiding, sick of running. Viserys was forced to run and hide and you know what happened to him. Viserys was frightened, fearing every shadow on the wall, fearful of everyone and everything. He ran and hid and pulled me with." Daenerys looked up, her face now an expressionless mask. "Viserys hurt me more than once and there were days I was afraid of him as much as, if not more so, than the Usurper. But he also did what he could for me. My brother told me stories of Westeros. He told me stories of the Wall with such pride it was as if he made it himself. When the Gonfaloniere of Lys gifted me a pony, it was Viserys who taught me to ride her. He told me of castles reaching the sky, knights who travelled the land and slept under hedgerows, of castles and noble houses beyond count. The Field of Fire where Aegon the Conqueror crushed the might of the Gardeners and Lannisters. The great castle of Harrenhal, so big it was said to be built by giants but melted like candle wax to Balerion's black flame. He loved to talk of dragons and, of late, I've been visited by dreams full of them."

"As have I," I lied.

"At first I was confused. I've had strange dreams all my life, but they have become more common as of late. I asked Septa Lemore what they meant, and she said you had your own upon waking up from your fever on the side of the Rhoyne. Do the dreams come regularly to you?"

"Sometimes. They tell me things. That was why I did as I did."

"I had a dream recently," she confined. "Of eggs and dragons, of fire and blood." She bit her lip and looked at the four eggs lined up on the side of her chambers. "Flames that were calling for me, saying my name."

 _I need a little more to work with than that_. "Anything else?"

"They burst forth and I heard a roar. I don't know though. I can remember bits and pieces, but much was forgotten shortly after waking. I tried to hatch them, put them in a hearth and watch them for hours at a time, hoping to see a crack or hear a little cry, but all they are is stone. Haldon says they are no more than that."

"Haldon is wise but wise men can be wrong. Many have been and many will continue to be. The Halfmaester thought I was going to die from a fever and had been wrong to the anguished cries of everyone around me. Daenys Targaryen dreamt the Doom of Valyria. It didn't come straight away and they called Aenar Targaryen mad. A craven when he fled with his slaves, processions and dragons to the outpost of Dragonstone. House Targaryen was the weakest of the forty families but, when the Doom came, the most powerful of dragonlords, wisest of wizards and most knowledgeable of scholars had all been proven wrong for the last time when the air turned to ash and burnt them from the insides. Thanks to Daenys, House Targaryen managed to survive the Doom and Century of Blood, something I'm sure we are both thankful for. I will summon Lyra to you. She knows more about everything relating to dreams and prophecy than myself. Mayhaps she'll help you make sense of it all. She did for me."

"I thank you for the offer and humbly accept," she smiled shyly at me. "Still, as was said, I _am_ Viserys' heir. The last of my line, just as you are. We are the same in this regard. A dragon, be it red or black, alone in the world is a terrible thing. As the Usurper came for Viserys, no doubt he'll come for me. Jorah must have only been the beginning. He'll send more knives and worse men to wield them. Can one truly be at peace when they are forced to run all their life? I don't desire to be like my brother."

"There is one way to avoid being like him," I put forth. _And you know what I'm suggesting_.

Daenerys didn't respond straight away, letting the tension linger for a moment before saying, "I have the duty to do so. For Viserys and Rhaegar, for Willam Darry, for Aegon and Rhaenys, my mother and father, my house and all those who died for House Targaryen. As his heir, I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Westeros' rightful queen."

"Many would dispute that, I'm afraid." I felt my lips tug into a half smile when she looked at me with a fire behind her eyes. _And here is Daenerys the Mother of Dragons, not Dany_. "There would be many who oppose such a thing."

"Why is that, Aegon? Answer me that."

"There are many who would seek to oppose you. Some desire to put me on the Iron Throne for my scales are black and I was born a man. Others would support Robert Baratheon. He used his warhammer and made himself king."

"Baratheon is no true king," Daenerys said scornfully. "He did no justice. That is what kings are meant to be for. Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the innocent and all those who cannot protect themselves?"

I almost smiled. "So, should you become queen of the Seven Kingdoms and all the lords' kneel before you, what will you do for them? As queen, what do you desire for your subjects?"

"If I am queen? My desires are not what's important. A true king and queen put their people first. If I sit the Iron Throne, I want to be a just ruler unlike Robert Baratheon. Haldon Halfmaester had been teaching me about Aegon the Unlikely, how he had travelled Westeros in his youth and gained much love for the smallfolk and tried to better them to the anger of his lords. But isn't it a queen's duty to care for all her people, and not only those who live in castles? He is now seen as mad because of Summerhall. A tyrant because he tried to help those at the mercy of lords who mistreat them. I have travelled the Free Cities, been with Septa Lemore and provided charity. I have seen how the smallfolk are treated. Would it be any different in Westeros where they are under the care of a usurper who cares for nought but fighting?"

"Good Queen Daenerys Targaryen," I said, tasting the title on my tongue, "the second coming of Queen Alysanne. Do you think that can happen? Do you think you can reform Westeros where Aegon the Fifth tried and failed?"

"Reform? As innocent as I am, I do not doubt such a thing will be challenging."

 _Oh, challenging it will be_. Between all the pretenders and claimants, Daenerys did have the most noble intentions and seemed no different here. She was easily charismatic, able to form a cult of personality in Slaver's Bay without even trying, had people undyingly loyal to her and while she couldn't always achieve it, tried to do the best for her people. _She just needs a firm hand, good policy and able advisers._ "Ruling is always challenging; it must be said. Viserys had openly named you his heir, the crown princess of the Seven Kingdoms. As I had sworn to serve King Viserys, I am bound to serve you, to stand behind you in all matters and provide honest counsel. As a friend, I will install you upon your rightful throne. That I swear."

"A friend . . ." her face grew almost shy. "I thank you, Aegon. I have only one question though. Why? Most here don't desire me to sit the Iron Throne on my lonesome. If they see me as a queen, it is only as your consort. But you see me as the proper heir. Why is that? What do _you_ want?"

"More than one question, that is. Someday, I might explain what I want for Westeros. But what I will say is that I have no desire to be king, as much as it'll pain father and all those who seek a Blackfyre monarch. But you though . . . if you are willing, I'll be more than happy to provide some advice from what I've learned. No doubt it'll be helpful."

After Doreah providing us some drinks, we laughed, we argued but above all, Daenerys listened.

 **...**

The air was cold as we stood in the open courtyard of Illyrio's manse, dressed in warm woollens under a starlit sky. A comet should be above us, burning blood red and spreading panic through the uneducated masses, but all I saw was the moon, pale and half obscured by clouds like an eye peering down at me. Lyra claimed to know the stars and insisted they had mystical power. I didn't believe her, yet I wasn't about to argue against her either. Since arriving, I had never managed to shed my scepticism and rationalistic mindset. In this world, my view of magic was that it was just another form of science but following different rules and should be researched to better understand the world. Lyra held similar views, though hers still retained a religious flair even if considered borderline heretical to the Rhoynish faith. If I showed Haldon or anyone else the beauties of modern computing, no doubt they'd assume it was a magical artefact of unparalleled power and not a bunch of switches flipping back and forth.

Lyra shot me a glance. She was dressed in a simple black dress cut more conservatively than what she usually wore and hiding what seemed to be a slight bulge in her belly. When she bothered to try, she could be quite attractive and more than once had grabbed the men's attention whilst on campaign. It was just a shame she was the anthropomorphic personification of sandpaper, both intentionally and unintentionally grating everyone's nerves. Yet despite that, I had grown to respect her, even if it didn't quite reach the level of friendship. The only person she was close to was Vaquo, which was odd considering their backgrounds.

"Not the kind to let an opportunity be missed are you, Young Griff?" Thankfully her voice was hushed so others couldn't hear.

"I was told that when an opportunity presented itself, that I need to grasp it with both hands."

"Wise words."

"I like to think so. This is mayhaps our best opportunity to hatch these eggs. Imagine the power we can obtain. Are you ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be. I haven't slept in many a night for I've been hunched over ancient books with pages crumbling in my hands." Lyra rubbed her eyes and in the glow of the surrounding torches, I glimpsed dark circles beneath like Vaquo when he spent nights working without sleep.

"I only hope that doesn't affect you. I'd rather you not fail. We only have this one chance."

"How encouraging. Remind me not to poison your drink next time."

"You already do." I shot her a slight smile to take the sting off my words. I meant it though. We only had this chance unless we discovered another trick to pull from our sleeves. "Your lack of rest and entire days sprawling before ancient documents should be proven in due time. Should they hatch, we all stand to benefit."

"Aye. Mayhaps you'll finally allow me some sleep." Lyra sounded bitter. "The night is still young. I do think waiting for the comet will improve our chances. His Grace's corpse may rot and smell worse but so what? It would ensure this ceremony will go a little quicker and I will be all the more thankful."

"I know you don't like him, and few here do, but could you at least be a little respectful? This is a funeral." I didn't know whether the comet would improve our chances as Lyra claimed. It could as far as I knew for that celestial body was in the sky when Daenerys hatched her eggs, or it could have just been a lucky coincidence. Either way, I needed them to hatch soon as possible. While I don't expect the dragons to be large enough to ride during the invasion, I predicted numerous rebellions sprouting up afterwards.

I turned from my associate to the pyre where Viserys had been laid to rest. Nothing had been spared for the Beggar King's final moments. For once he actually looked like royalty, and the priestesses had armoured Viserys Targaryen as if to fight Robert Baratheon in some final battle. He wore black plate with golden inlays on his gauntlets, greaves and breastplate with indents where rubies should have been. A helm masterfully crafted in the form of a snarling dragon laid beside his head that had been smoothed out with makeup and balancing atop his eyes were two painted stones. Laying upon his chest was his gilded longsword, clutched hands grasping the hilt. Even in death he was still brandishing the bloody thing. The armour was a last-minute addition, of course. Viserys had never worn that armour in life for it was still being crafted when he was dying. It had been hastily scraped together by the armourer so he could wear it at least once.

 _I suppose it'll be worth it by the end of the day, should the dragons hatch_.

I could say similarly to Khal Drogo as he was being tired to the stake by Unsullied. What had once cut a heroic and intimidating figure was no more. Lyra had seriously done a number on him in a way that scared me. When I first saw him, Khal Drogo had been injured from battle, burned and needing amputation, but he had been tall and muscular with a long drooping moustache and a braid reaching his thighs. Overall generally impressive. What I saw wasn't him. The man being tied to the pole was bald, with missing limbs and bandages that almost covered the entity of his body. After so long in Lyra's tender care, the man who had been Khal Drogo was not even a shadow of what he once was. His skin had been flayed, his blood drained from his body, and several toes and fingers had been removed. Ageing what seemed centuries, Drogo looked the image of a man with one foot in the grave. _Which is it? Is he climbing in or climbing out?_

Drogo wasn't the only one. Bound hand and foot, Ser Jorah Mormont watched Illyrio's slaves throw more thatch onto the pyre. His face was so swollen I had questioned Blackheart whether he was truly Ser Jorah and, apparently, he was. This was the punishment for betraying the man he had sworn to protect and attempting to flee. The knight had been beaten within an inch of his life in the dungeons but still he stood defiant. I could respect Mormont for his bravery.

I supposed once upon a time, I would be horrified at what I did and what I was about to do. I'd subjected someone to the angel of death and was about to end it all by burning them alive. Not once had I imagined I'd let this happen, let alone order, but this world had hardened me in ways I had never come to expect. I didn't feel anything as the man tried to break free of his bonds or scream in the horrible growl that was the Dothraki tongue, only watched. Any empathy urging me against it was gone. While the first few killings had been horrific, our battle against the Dothraki held no emotional impact for me. Them being the archetypal evil barbarian with all the negative qualities used in propaganda made it shockingly easy to dehumanise the swarms that smashed against our lines.

 _I'm a monster_ , I decided. By any metric of modern day, I fit easily in the brackets of being a war criminal. While those I fought against were no innocents themselves, they were still people and only going against more 'acceptable' targets made it no less bad. _Ends justify the means. If I can save lives with dragons by making the lords of Westeros and later Essos bend the knee without bloodshed, it'll be worth it. What is one life or two against thousands?_ It made me wonder how much of the original me was still left at this point.

Upon giving Vaquo a polite nod as he rubbed his gloved hands together, Doreah announced her master's presence and we all turned around. The servants had clearly done their best and Daenerys Targaryen looked stunning. The soon-to-be-declared queen wore a high-collared black silk gown with red scales running down her arms, her silver-gold hair had been curled in the fashion of Lys and her face was obstructed by a black veil of translucent silk. It was a beautiful sight, though ruined when Khal Drogo yelled some more words I didn't know, but I doubted they were pleasant ones at that. Around Princess Daenerys was her court of handmaidens, all dressed splendidly in gowns of mourning.

I bowed my head as did many others as a sign of respect. "Princess—"

"Why do you call me that?" Daenerys challenged me, her voice hard as granite. It wasn't her normal voice. It sounded forced, the kind one would have when they tried to make themselves more powerful and threatening. "You had bent your knee to Viserys. You proclaimed him king, did you not?"

I paused before reluctantly replying, "I did bend the knee to your brother, and I did proclaim him king." _Is this a trick?_ From the way she was speaking, the authoritative tone and words, I had an inkling of what she was doing. _She wants me to swear an oath before everyone_. Daenerys was quick to act. I'd grant her that.

"When you approached me after my brother's death, you told me I was Viserys' heir. Correct?"

 _Oh, you clever girl_. I had never quite expected her to do this. While it wasn't the most complicated or masterful ploy, it showed a certain cunning. I could claim I didn't say such a thing which, while not weakening my influence with my allies in the Golden Company, would reveal me as deceitful for lying to her face and diminish our relationship. That'll especially be counterproductive with what I had planned. On the other hand, I could admit I did say that and that'll be me admitting my own claim was inferior to her own, which it honestly was. The Blackfyres were thought dead in Westeros and had been victims to a series of defeats that essentially eliminated any legitimacy they had, but that was minor to the fact my parents were an up-start merchant and a bed slave, neither of whom would be accepted in highly elitist Westeros. I chewed the inside of my cheeks. The words _, as a friend_ , punctuated the sentence of me bending the knee. _It won't matter who sits their arse on the throne, I will govern._

"I did say something along those lines," I confessed.

"Viserys is dead and I am his heir, the last member of House Targaryen. Everything that was his, be they claims and processions, are rightfully mine. Are you mine, Aegon Blackfyre?"

I paused, noticing Blackheart and all the other officers of the Golden Company watch me with interest. I couldn't have a read of them. Their expressions were blank, waiting to see what I'd do. _This may finally turn them against me_. I almost let out a bitter laugh. All I had done from reforming the Golden Company, reforging the Triarchy as a subservient alliance of tributary states, to defeating Khal Drogo on an open field, and I get outplayed by a fourteen-year-old girl because I said the wrong words in a moment of compassion. Fuck.

It didn't take long to decide who I'd rather be my enemy between the die-hard Blackfyre loyalists within the Company or Daenerys Targaryen. Would it truly be so bad to be a servant? Kingship never appealed to me, nor did I think I'll perform that highly as king. I didn't hold myself in high regard when it came to public speaking and every action would be utterly scrutinised by the lords. My more unorthodox attitudes on governance, my radically liberal attitudes (at least compared to this world) and opinions of the smallfolk would win me no love among the lords who'll resist at every opportunity. I glanced at Illyrio Mopatis who stood at the side, standing on legs I'm surprised hadn't buckled under his impressive weight. _The rotting sea cow of Pentos_. " _You will do as I say_ ," his words rang in my ears. He was glaring at me with a face saying no, I shouldn't bend the knee. It might be spiteful and extremely petty, but if there was something confirming what I should and shouldn't do, it was that.

"My queen. The sword that I had sworn to King Viserys is now yours."

"Even the Golden Company?"

There was a pause.

"If it is my power, I swear it."

She lifted me up, pulled the veil from her face and kissed lightly me on the cheek. It was dry but it reminded me of the one she gave before though not half as pleasant. "Thank you," she whispered before turning to the officers, her face a stoic mask like what a queen should be. "Men of the Golden Company. Officers and soldiers, you are my army now. As you stand before me, I see the faces of exiles, men of renown and infamy, those who had been exiled to Essos for crimes committed against realm and crown. If you swear your vows to me, just as you had done for my brother, I will see you returned to Westeros. I will see you returned to your home and ancestral keeps, to live lives worth living. Bend the knee and promise me your swords and I will see your birthrights return to you."

"Westeros has never taken a ruling queen before," Ser Harry Strickland said calmly. "The last time that issue was pursued, it caused a civil war called the Dance of the Dragons. Thousands died; houses extinguished. Lords love not to be ruled by mere girls."

"Mere girls? Good thing I am no longer one than. I was a child yesterday, ser. Today I am a woman and tomorrow I will be old. To each of you I will say this, give me your allegiance and I'll make sure there is always a place for you at my side and in my heart. Captain-general Myles Blackheart Toyne, knight and former bandit of the Kingswood Brotherhood, as the highest-ranking officer of the Golden Company you swore your service to my brother and named him your rightful king. Am I his heir?"

"The boy said as much, but I serve House Blackfyre, an oath I swore once I took the position as head of the Golden Company, to see the black dragon sit the Iron Throne of Westeros in any matter I am capable of."

"But what of me, ser? Aegon bent the knee, promising to serve me faithfully. He is to stand by my side in the coming war. You are loyal the black dragons, I know, but should Aegon command you to serve me, is it your duty to obey or refuse?"

"He did and I am bound to serve him," Myles admitted, his homely face turning to the side. "But Westeros has never taken a woman to rule over them before. The lords will be most resilient. I will ride by your side and install you both upon the Iron Throne, but only if you take Aegon as your king and sovereign, and you serve him as consort. Your brother was a king and you are a girl, too soft for such a burden to be placed upon your shoulders."

Surprisingly, Dany only nodded. She turned to Illyrio who wore loose gowns of flame-coloured silk most fitting for the occasion, with gemstones glittering on his fingers and a yellow beard forked and perfumed. The anger he had shown when I offered my sword had vanished from his fat face. "Magister Illyrio," she began, voice clear and loud. "I would like to thank you on behalf of House Targaryen for all you have done. Without you, both me and Viserys would be on the streets, forced to run and hide from the Usurper's knives. While Viserys couldn't outrun them in the end, I thank you for the protection you have granted us during our stay here. I pray you support me just as you had done my brother, that your son will sit by my side as prince and consort, and I'll offer all the rewards deemed suitable for your support in these challenging times. I ask only for ships and coin and your counsel. Should the war be done, and I sit the Iron Throne of Westeros as queen of all, you can be Master of Coin, and deemed a high lord. What say you, magister?"

"I would be most honoured, princess," and he almost sounded convincing.

Then she turned to the first companions I had in this world. "Septa Lemore, you have given me counsel on the Faith of the Seven, wisdom and much comfort. I would desire to take you into my company, to give me guidance whenever needed, for you speak with the voice of the Seven above. I only ask that you are honest and act with integrity as befits a septa. What say you?"

I urged Lemore with a shallow nod. "I am a servant of the Seven who are one, Your Grace. My duty is to serve in their stead. I am thankful for the honour and will perform my duties to the best of my abilities."

"Haldon Halfmaester. You served as Aegon's teacher, and then my own. I ask of you what I asked of Septa Lemore, that you join my service to advise me whenever I need advising. That you are honest in your intentions and dutiful in the role expected of a maester. Even if you lack the chain, I consider you no less of one."

Haldon was more hesitant, but he bowed his head in the end. "It will be done, Your Grace. I served Aegon but he is a man grown and getting to the end of his education. If you are to be queen, you have more to learn and I will do my best to prepare you for the burdens ahead."

"That is all I want. To those who had sworn me oaths, I will keep you to them and pray I never give you cause to question, nor hold any regrets for swearing them." She turned to me, "Aegon Blackfyre, for your fealty and oath, I name you Protector of the Realm in my service. You will the realms sword and shield, to protect my person and that of our children. You will lead the armies of the Seven Kingdoms to return House Targaryen to its rightful throne and defend it against all those who seek to raise their swords against us. What say you?"

"I would be most honoured, Your Grace. I vow to serve you, to die for you if needs be. To stand by your side no matter what may come."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what."

It was midnight when the ceremony was at an end. Lemore stood before the body of Viserys the Third of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. She spoke of life and death, the seven aspects and finding peace in the seven heavens. I ignored the sermon and spent my time deep in thoughts of the future, Westeros and magic.

"Oil," Illyrio commanded and his household slaves brought forth jars to pour over the pyre, soaking the silks and linens, the brush and bundles and hay, until it trickled beneath the logs and the air was rich with fragrance. Not even the two prisoners were spared and were soon glistening with substance. Both Khal Drogo and Ser Jorah thrashed but the ropes were taut and didn't budge in the slightest. "Bring the eggs."

Each of Daenerys' handmaidens stepped forward, each holding a separate egg and laid them around Viserys. The black under one arm, opposite was placed the purple, the green beside his head, the cream-and-gold between his legs.

"You shouldn't do this," Lemore urged, voice clearly directed at me despite looking at Daenerys. "You shouldn't destroy these eggs, nor burn these two people. They are villains, yes, but you shouldn't burn them. It would be wiser to sell the eggs to buy ships and men for Westeros."

"And what do you suppose we do with them, septa?" I asked her. "Leave them in a cell to die of starvation or chop their heads off? They are to be executed. Simple as that." _And I've lost my humanity long ago_.

Dany ignored Septa Lemore and climbed Viserys' pyre to brush aside his pale hair and kiss him on the forehead. As she climbed down, Haldon said, "This is madness."

"Madness and wisdom are two sides of the same coin," Daenerys Targaryen said sadly. "How far away are the two truly? Some of you here must have thought Aegon mad for what he has done. Why should he have the benefit of the doubt?"

Ser Jorah Mormont spat out his gag and his voice was an angry growl, frantic and angry. " _You are mad! I NEVER KILLED YOUR BROTHER!"_

"You did. He was stabbed and you abandoned him to die in the streets. You fled. How is that not a sign of guilt, ser? Though I do thank you, Ser Jorah, for the lessons you have taught me. I will be more cautious to those trying to gain my trust."

" _YOU WILL NOT HEAR ME SCREAM!"_ Jorah screamed as oil dripped down his bald face, through his beard and down his clothes.

"It is not your screams I desire, ser, only the life of a traitor." Daenerys Targaryen stepped away from the pyre to my side. I took her hand in mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. She replied by pressing her side into mine and I felt a desire to wrap an arm around her. It would have been romantic, should we not be about to watch two people burn alive. Jorah's face went from that of fury to that of fear. Utter, primal fear. I looked up at where the stars flashed in a sea of darkness and filtered out the shouts.

A slave stepped forward, carrying a torch and thrust it between the logs. The oils went alight at once, the brush and hay and wood a heartbeat later. It burst forth in an explosion and the man darted back, skin red and burned from just the hot air. A heat puffed at my face, soft and sudden as a lover's breath, warm and gentle and comforting, but only for a moment, and soon became too hot to bear. We all stepped back. Flames in the form of hot blistering fingers skated over the oil, licking the air and darted up the wood towards the laying king. His silks took fire and, for an instant, Viserys was clad in wisps of orange silk and tendrils of grey smoke.

I sheltered my eyes and people voiced their opinions of horror or excitement, all except Daenerys who watched the flames in silence.

Once the fire began, Lyra sang a shrill, ululating tongue that sounded . . . _wrong_. It wasn't her normal voice but something else. The flames whirled and withered, dancing around each other and consumed the air to produce a hellish shriek. The wood crackled and hissed, eager fires climbed up the poles of the knight and khal who were struggling to free themselves. Flying embers spewed upwards into the night sky like a swarm of fireflies. The air soon became thick with the scent of burning flesh and both their screams added to Lyra's voice, creating something unnatural, something that made me sick to my stomach.

Then I saw them.

Someone screamed, and not from those in the pyre. Around the inferno, the shadows danced. Lyra's cry rose to a high wail that sent shivers down my spine. Septa Lemore stepped back, holding the crystal around her neck before her and muttering a prayer, eyes widened to the size of eggs. The fires shifted and changed colour: red and gold and orange, blue and green, growing hotter and fiercer. They swirled like the dancers who entertained Myles and his men, whirling and singing while dressed in yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely, and scary. I glimpsed the shadows and knew they shouldn't exist. They danced on the walls and ground, circling the pyre, utterly surreal and drinking the light. For a moment, I saw a dragon and elephant, a manticore and a horned man. There were others; creatures I had never seen before, creatures that may not even have names. I was unable to look away despite every fibre of my being screaming that I should, that I should run away and hide. I didn't. I stood my ground, utterly transfixed.

A terrible roar filled the air.

The wood crackled and the pyre began to collapse. The fires grew hotter and my skin began to sweat. Yet despite that, I couldn't move. It was like I was physically restrained by someone. Something. There was a second loud crack, as loud and sharp as thunder. Through the flames, the pyre broke in upon itself, kicking up smoke. The fire grew stronger. Thirty feet it climbed, swirling and dancing, restless and angry.

Dany's hand slipped from mine and she stepped forward, towards the firestorm with arms spread as if to hug the flames. Her skin shimmered like it'd been coated with oils. Someone screamed and then I realised it was me, begging Lyra to do something. I tried to grab Daenerys, to pull her back from the pyre but the fires intensified, bellowing a warning. I pulled my hand back, growling in agony, and collapsed to the ground. My right hand flared in pain so great I screamed. The skin was red and raw like I'd just dipped my hand into a burning hearth. The mage turned to me, gasping for breath and mouthed something I couldn't hear.

Images danced in the flames: crimson lions and burning dragons and smouldering wolves, men running in fear and a kraken with tendrils made of smoke. There were burning trees, so many burning trees.

Her dress beginning to smoulder, Dany stripped the garbs and let them fall. They burst into flames before even hitting the ground. Yet Dany remained unfazed, entering the fires like they were nothing. I screamed internally, someone wept but most were silent. Lyra was frantic, her mouth open in a soundless, primal cry.

Then a crack, like an explosion happening right in front of me. The platform shifted and collapsed in its entirety. Fires turned to smoke and ash and cinder. One of the burning poles came crashing down before me, little more than a pillar of flame. Roaring filled the world and there were cries inside, tiny things I strained to hear. The pyre collapsed with the sound of the world breaking and all that remained was smoke.

Lyra turned around and when I saw her face, I could swear she had aged decades. The flesh had all gone from her. Skin stretched tight around her skull in certain places, sagged in others. Her cheeks were hollow, and her arms were little more than sticks. There were dark circles under Lyra's eyes that, once dark with intellect, were now sunken deep into black pits. She looked ready to collapse, and did, falling unceremoniously into the dirt. Only Vaquo rushed to her aid, throwing his sable cloak around the withered frame and helping the mage up to be led inside.

 _Only death can pay for life. How many lives must be snuffed for dragons?_ It was a horrible cost yet just the idea of them sent a strange joy to erupt through my body, filling it with more warmth than I felt from the pyre. _Should anyone threaten to stop me, I will bare my teeth and dare them to deny me._

When the fires died at last, what had been Viserys' funeral pyre had turned into a blackened nest. We stepped forward and found Daenerys Targaryen sitting with her legs crossed in the centre, surrounded by blackened logs, bits of glowing embers and the burnt bones of men. She was naked, covered with soot, her clothes nothing but ash and her beautiful silvery hair had all crisped away, yet there wasn't a single burn on her. Not a single mark beneath all the ash and soot.

Where two existences had died, four more came into being. Surrounding her were tiny creatures with long tails, serpentine necks and small leathery wings. The cream-and-gold dragon whined like a newly born pup, curled around her right arm, the green-and-bronze was being cradled in her arms, content in its slumber. The black-and-scarlet beast was draped across her shoulders, its long neck tucked under her chin. It took me a moment to see the last one, the black-and-purple dragon on its own, eyeing me with eyes as black as onyx.

Everyone was silent, all pushing for a closer look at the girl who survived the flames and the dragons she had birthed. Daenerys rose on wobbly feet with glassy eyes not looking up to greet us. Without being asked, Dalabhar provided her his woollen cloak. She accepted with a nod and turned to us, to me, with a growing smile.

Wordlessly, I dropped to one knee. Haldon and Lemore and Duck, Dalabhar, Damon and Qarro all fell in behind, as did the common soldiery and servants. Lysono Maar followed with the Essosi officers, pulled out his jewelled sword and planted it into the ground, Harry collapsed beside the spymaster and laid his sword to his feet where he said, "Daenerys of House Targaryen," his voice stilted and was unable to look away from the dragons.

"The true queen of the Seven Kingdoms," Myles finished, his voice a cracked murmur as he and Illyrio were the last to bend the knee, and with no great haste. "Queen of Dragons."

"Mother of Dragons," I finished.

Everyone was on their knees before Daenerys, before her children. The dragons' hissed, pale smoking venting from their mouths and nostrils, staring at everyone. The red-and-black dragon let out a call and the other three added their voices to the chorus, translucent wings unfolding and stirring in the air. For the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons and the world trembled.

* * *

A/N: Here is the second version of the chapter and sorry for the time it took. With the _many_ criticisms of the chapter previously, I decided I should delete it and re-edit to deal with some of the complaints. I can't change it all because it lays the groundwork for what I've got planned for the story. While I don't doubt some of you still have gripes with this version, I hope this is an improvement.


	23. Chapter 19: Here be Hatchlings

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 19: Here be Hatchlings**

* * *

"Beautiful, aren't they?" Daenerys smiled sweetly as the ocean breeze rustled her silks. We were reclining on the balcony of her chambers, atop couches with plush cushions stuffed with goose down. She was garbed in a plum silk dress with a tiny dragon wrapped around her neck, having grown sleepy after gorging itself on crispy chunks of goat.

I eyed the creature's slender body expanding and deflating with every lazy breath. "They are. I said the same thing the first ten times you asked."

She blushed.

After stepping into the pyre, the loss of her hair had left Daenerys Targaryen bald and smooth as an egg. It would take a while to regrow, and Dany was very conscious of it. "I cannot help it. Look at them. They are dragons. _Living, breathing dragons_. After more than a hundred years, here they are." The black-scaled beast dug its claws into her neck. Dany winced where upon it wrapped its long serpentine tail around her arm. All the dragons were tiny things, no larger than a cat and much lighter. They were all frail bones and graceless limbs. It was only when they spread their delicate wings that their full size could truly be admired, and admired they were. Daenerys pried its claws from her shoulder. "Before they hatched, I imagined I was Queen Rhaenys or Visenya or any of the other Targaryens when dragons ruled. I spent my dreams soaring the skies and across oceans. Discovering unknown lands and visiting cities, looking down at everyone from above. That I would retake Westeros from the Usurper."

"And now we can." I grinned, leaning forward to pick a plump grape from the silver platter. The skin was tender and, upon biting into it, filled my mouth with sweetness. I stoked my own sleeping dragon, running a hand down its spiny back. The scales were warm and it was like having a hot water bottle atop my lap, if said bottle occasionally scratched or bit my knee in its sleep. Despite having planned for it, I couldn't believe there were dragons. Once I had two bearded dragons and they'd been cool, but these were different beasts entirely. The purple-and-black hatchling had taken to me immediately, spending most of its days on my shoulder and occasionally whipping me with the tip of its tail. It also sneezed smoke into my face which was annoying . . . but how could I complain? It was a dragon!

I must have had my thoughts plastered across my face because Dany snickered. While I had one on my lap, she had the rest surrounding her. Of those three, two retained their canon names: Rhaegal and Viserion. It didn't take long for their personalities to become known. Viserion was the smallest, lithe and pretty with gold-speckled scales, and the gentlest who loved being cuddled and purred like a cat whenever Dany did so. The green-and-bronze was Rhaegal who was the loudest and had on many occasions snapped at Daenerys' handmaidens, even biting Doreah when she saved him from falling off a table. He was the pragmatic one who had not met a challenge without first trying to manoeuvre around, distract or hamstring it. Such tactics worked on Viserion all the time when they played. Then there was the black-and-red, Daenerys favourite, who also just happened to be the largest and most dominant of the four, the one that wasted no time in becoming the alpha. Because Daenerys never had close relations with Khal Drogo and instead watched him burn to death, she had gone with a different name: Rhaellon, named after the queen who died birthing her.

"And now we can!" she repeated my words with enthusiasm. "They are so tiny though. I have no doubt they'll grow to be strong and fierce as the Conquerors own. They need to. They've been shedding recently. Haldon told me that's what snakes do when they grow. Do you think dragon scales can be used for armour when they're large enough?"

I never thought about that and took a moment to think. Currently the scales were soft, but they'll grow harder as the dragons aged. If the books were completely reliable, a dragon's scales could shrug off arrows fired from a bow and even bolts thrown from a scorpion. "Maybe they can. Is that what you want, Daenerys? Do you want to dress yourself in Rhaellon's skin? Are you secretly a Bolton?"

"It's not skin," she said before picking up a grape and throwing in my direction. It hit me square on the nose and she giggled. I tried hard to keep my face stoic, but the mask crumbled and I found myself joining in. "I do need armour," Daenerys continued, "both Aegon's wives wore mail during the Conquest. I believe Queen Rhaenyra as well. I don't remember correctly, but didn't Queen Visenya get injured?"

"By an archer in the Field of Fire. She took an arrow to the shoulder."

Dany nodded. "I will need to wait. None of them are large enough to fly, nor can they protect us. As they are babes, we need to protect them."

I looked down at the dragon I'd named Azantys after much thought. I was never good at naming things – my previous thoughts were Toothless and Smaugon – but this name seemed fitting for it was Valyrian for warrior. Hopefully it would be meaningful later for this warrior was a tiny thing. Azantys was slender, not much larger than Viserion and had eyes like black pools. He would stare at you which would have been creepy if he wasn't adorable. There were only baby dragons, but all of them were big eaters, easily consuming several times their own weight every day. Not a single meal occurred without the four of them battling over every piece, growing larger and fiercer.

"And we'll do so. A single arrow, a slash from a sword, and even a stone thrown will kill them. Though most wouldn't be stupid enough for that. There are only four dragons in the whole world so should someone steal only the one, they'll gain something that's beyond price. Every man who steals eyes upon them will want them for themselves."

"I disagree. There will always be those willing to kill them for no other reason than to call themselves dragonslayer. I will not let them. They are ours. These three are mine and that one would be as well if he didn't like you. They were born of my brother and faith. If he hadn't died, I'm sure they wouldn't be here now. Power always comes from a cost; Haldon says, and that's a steep cost if it is so. No man will take them from me whilst I live."

 _That's fine. Those's who'd steal them would kill you first_. "I'm sure you would fight like a mother hen to protect them."

She gave me a pointed look and I couldn't help but snicker. "A mother protects her children and I'm their mother. The dragons are our houses' symbols and the dragons hatching at this time, when we need them, mean something. The servants call me the Unburnt. Daenerys the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons."

 _The red priests will no doubt call you Azor Ahai Reborn as well_. "The first of many titles, me thinks. Though I urge caution so all this power doesn't get to your head. You are no dragonrider yet."

Dany bobbed her head up and down, her attempt to look queenly broke when Viserion rubbed against her tummy and made her giggle. "How long do you think we'll have to wait?"

"Two years I would expect, maybe three. They are tiny now but will grow and quick. We'll need to keep them well fed. It's fortunate Pentos is rich in livestock. Azantys has quite the taste for beef so I fear Pentoshi cows may become a thing of the past once we finally invade."

"Then we should invade soon, Egg. Me not getting burnt, the dragons, they are a sign. I just know it. Septa Lemore says the Seven are looking down upon us and provided me their blessing. One of the servants claimed R'hllor has chosen me for how else can I walk into the pyre and only lose the hair atop my head?"

 _A few reasons. Lyra's magic for one_. I looked down at my bandaged hand and grimaced. It still hurt and I'd been too stubborn to consume milk of the poppy. If a few burns on my hand was the price for these creatures, I would pay said price and call it a bargain.

Daenerys Targaryen licked her lips and reclined backwards, letting Viserion climb atop her belly and curl up. "Your father desires us wed as soon as possible."

I wasn't surprised. It was the dragons that had changed his plans in the books from Daenerys being an expendable pawn to becoming one of the most important pieces. That was why he had sent Ser Barristan to bring her back to Pentos, no doubt to marry her to Young Griff. There was no Daenerys in Qarth or Slaver's Bay so those cities were still flooded with slaves. _For now_. "Father's most eager. Mayhaps we should have two ceremonies."

"Should you fail the first one?"

"That to. A smaller ceremony should be held before the Golden Company as a sign of unity and to tie up our alliance, then another in Westeros when, or should, we win the Iron Throne. The latter should be performed by the High Septon before all the smallfolk and lords. A wedding such as that would bring forth more legitimacy and prestige to our persons. Same with your crowning."

Dany nodded in agreement. "An interesting suggestion, Egg. I can't help but feel a little nervous about it though."

"I trust I'm not that bad looking."

She blushed. "N-no, I mean yes, I mean . . . You are most beautiful."

"I thank you for the compliment, I strive to be such a thing." I smiled lazily and Dany rolled her eyes in a way that told me she regretted saying those words. "Though in truth, I would rather be a good husband and partner in both court and private."

She smiled. "In all honesty, I am still surprised you put aside your own claim. I saw how reluctant some of the officers were to bow and that was only when most already did. Most would want to marry me to become king where they to rule in my stead. I would count myself lucky if they allowed me any authority of my own."

 _You would be voiceless if Illyrio got his way_. I had seen the way he looked at her and had called me into his office to unleash his anger at myself for being, quote, "a foolish lust filled boy," which was hypocritical for he claimed to love Serra Blackfyre and diminished his own standing because of it, though I had no doubt he was full of lies and it was because she was a scion of House Targaryen that he married her. "You are the rightful heir and carry more legitimacy than I in the eyes of the lords." I'd doubts Daenerys and I were going to see eye to eye on every issue and our disagreements might cause ripples that eventually grow into rifts. I was hopeful, maybe naively, that I could avoid that.

She smiled shyly, scratching Rhaellon on the neck. "If there is any boon you desire, I would do all in my power to see it happen."

I bowed my head in thanks. "If you were offering, I do think you need your own Queensguard. Not only for your protection, but to add further legitimacy to your claim. Might I suggest a name?"

"Who is it? Who do you want to serve as my sworn shield?"

"Duck." Daenerys looked at me sceptically so I explained. "Duck is my friend. We travelled Essos together and he taught me arms most of my life. While he may not be the most well-bred, nor even the greatest of knights, he is trustworthy and able and will die for you. That is what you need in a guardsman. When Visenya formed the Kingsguard, they had members from all over. Ser Humfrey the Mummer was lowborn, but he was strong and quick and devoted to his king. That is what you need. Ser Jaime Lannister is among the best swordsmen and a lord's son, but you know what happened." _It would also help to have one of my own watching you_.

Daenerys thanked me for the suggestion and asked Irri to fetch Duck. The ginger knight entered and went to one knee. "Ser Rolly Duckfield," Daenerys began. The dragons hissed as she shifted. "Please rise. I have just been speaking with Aegon who has suggested I form a Queensguard and one of the names he recommended happened to be yours." Rolly looked dumbfounded but Daenerys continued. "I was told you are a stalwart man. Is this true?"

"I like to believe myself as such," Duck admitted cautiously.

"Aegon suggested you be named the first member and told me stories of knights from humble origins. I am aware you are only a blacksmiths son, but one with aspirations of knighthood. To serve your queen is the highest honour and only seven knights are permitted to wear the white cloak. Would you desire that, ser? Would you desire to take the white and serve your queen?"

Duck swallowed and looked down, not quite meeting her gaze. "I thank you for the honour, Your Grace, but I'm afraid I must decline the offer. I am unworthy."

"Hogwash," I said. "This is an honour. You are my friend and worthier than many who've worn the white. I can think of no one else for such a position."

"I thank you for the consideration, the both of you, but . . . in the Kingsguard, one is unable to take a wife and family. There is one . . ."

Instead of being offended, Daenerys only smiled. "And I wager you have your eyes on someone. Is that true?"

Duck scratched the back of his head and I couldn't help but notice a watching Doreah blush. "It seems one of my knights has been taken with one of your ladies. Is this true, Rolly?"

"It is true, Master Aegon," Doreah curtsied, "Your Grace. We have been—"

"May I ask for your blessing," Duck interjected, suddenly sounding braver for a moment. "To take Doreah to wife."

Daenerys thought for a moment, but it was clear it was only for show. "Provided you treat my dearest Doreah gently and are faithful, I see no reason to deny such a request. As faithful service to the both of you, I will provide you a stout keep near King's Landing and take you into my own household."

"I-I, thank you, Your Grace." Doreah looked close to tears and hugged Duckfield.

I smiled. I was glad Duck found someone and was quite surprised but, at the same time, I didn't like surprises, especially if they conflicted with what I had planned. None the matter. _This is minor. The Queensguard will only be a ceremonial body at the end of the day_.

After Duck took his leave to return to the sparring yard, Daenerys hugged Doreah tight, congratulated and kissed the handmaiden on the cheek. "Is that why you were looking at fertility charms?"

Doreah blushed a deep red and when she was about to respond, there was a knock on the door. I asked for Irri to pause her chess game against Larra to open it. Thanking the girl, Dalabhar walked in with a tightness one could expect if they were constipated. He entered, closed the door behind him and gave a salute, not even glancing at the dragons who arose at the noise. I gave him a nod in greeting before calling to him, "How is Lyra?"

Dalabhar had been assigned to her protection as she laid abed, sleeping off whatever the hell happened that turned her into half a skeleton. She didn't die, thankfully, but she'd been in a short-lived coma with Haldon feeding her milk and honey so she wouldn't waste away. Only recently had Lyra woken up, but she hadn't done much other than sleep. "She is doing well. Better than last night and much more than the night before. She requested I ask Her Grace a question."

"What is that, adjutant?" Daenerys was curious before pecking Doreah on the cheek and returning to her seat.

His expression was pained. "When you stepped into the pyre and birthed those four dragons, was it a chilling experience for you?"

 _Sounds like something Lyra would ask. Good to know that almost dying hadn't stripped her of her wit_.

"I honestly didn't feel a thing. It was warm but I didn't burn, not like Aegon. It was queer but—I wasn't thinking about anything. It was like a dream and fuzzy, like I wasn't truly there." She looked confused, biting her lip then turned to me with a look of concern. "How is your hand?"

"Stiff. Better than it was. Haldon cleaned the wounds and added soothing medicine to the skin." I forced a smile and jested, "I got burnt on your behalf it seems. I don't think the fires liked me all that much. But you, Dalabhar, I doubted you came as a messenger to Lyra's questions. Why are you here?"

"I have come to inform the both of you of recent events from the Sunset Kingdoms."

"And what news may that be, adjutant?"

Of late, there had been much. Lord Eddard became Hand and Westeros had been slowly mobilising thanks to our operations within the Disputed Lands and Stepstones. Varys was doing his best to hinder their operations and spread of information but he was facing an uphill battle which now had Lord Stannis enlarging the royal fleet, augmenting it with fifty large dromonds at a sizeable cost to the crumbling royal treasury propped up only thanks to generous loans from the Iron Bank and Lord Tywin. No doubt Littlefinger was doing what Littlefinger did best and exploiting the situation by ensuring the loans had incredibly high interest rates for the purpose of crippling the Westerosi economy later down the line. Despite Varys' attempts in Westeros, the lords were using the Golden Company threat as an opportunity to build up their military strength for the increasingly inevitable clusterfuck against each other. Lord Tywin had been hiring sellswords, called his banners and raising fresh levies to "come to the realms defence when needed." Such actions had caused a chain reaction among his neighbours. Ser Edmure had followed Tywin's example, as had the Tyrells. While they hadn't fully mobilised for war, them performing it much earlier was worrisome. I doubted Lord Eddard would be overseeing this and doing nothing himself.

"War." The Summer Islander's voice was grave. "Recent events have concluded with Robert Baratheon's death and the recent crowning of Prince Joffrey. Lord Eddard Stark attempted to usurp the title of regent with a palace coup but was foiled. Add that to recent skirmishes between the Tully's and Lannisters, and the North has risen up in arms."

 _It begins_. I nodded, rubbing little Azantys under the chin. "I expected as much. We've been slowly weakening the foundations beneath the Usurper's feet so one of these days it was bound to collapse. Are those three the only ones fighting?"

"I'd expect the lords Baratheon to become involved soon enough. Lord Stannis has been building up his forces on Dragonstone. He's taken in a Shadowbinder from Asshai, been hiring sellsails and mercenaries. Some of whom have fought against us in the Disputed Lands, though I can't say for certain due to limited information. The Spider's spies on Dragonstone always end up vanishing so we have no eyes there."

 _Vanishing?_ That was unsettling. One of our most important tools was Varys' spy network. Without that we were blind, and Stannis was among the most dangerous contenders. Robb was an exceptional military commander, but it was Stannis who survived longest in the War of the Five Kings and was a battle-hardened commander who could inspire great loyalty in his men. The fact he'd been preparing for a possible invasion from across the Narrow Sea would make him stronger than he was in canon. _He's got more ships, more men and no doubt better prepared for the outbreak of war. And without spies, we can't tell how much_.

Dany sat up. "Dead? Are you sure he is dead?" Rhaellon hissed, pale smoke rose before her face like a veil. She waved it away. "Can you be certain?"

"I do not believe the Spider would have any cause to lie," my officer said, before muttering, "unless he has decided to switch sides."

"The Usurper killed my brothers. Robert Baratheon hired Ser Jorah Mormont as a hired knife to get in close and murder Viserys. He would have killed me too if he had the chance. What was the manner of the Usurper's death?"

"He'd been torn by a boar whilst hunting in the Kingswood. I've been told much news is unreliable, so I'm only going by the Spider's words. Sailors from King's Landing and its surrounding towns claim the queen betrayed him. Others say Lord Stark planned to make himself regent by launching his coup and threatening the boy king and dowager queen with death if they dared refuse. No doubt plenty more will soon come this way, even more outlandish than the last. All that can be certain is that Robert Baratheon is dead, the realm's unstable and conflicts are flaring up like forest fires within in the heart of summer."

"I have never seen the Usurper's face," Dany said softly. "Yet not does a day pass without me thinking about him and all he has done. How can I not with the Usurper being the shadow looming over my life since I came forth amidst blood and storm and salt in a world where I no longer had a place? With Baratheon dead, it feels as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. If he's half the warrior people claim, the campaign should go easier without him. You have my thanks for bringing the news, Dalabhar, from the depths of my heart."

"I wouldn't be too confident, Your Grace," I interjected. "The boy king sits the Iron Throne and he's not like to step aside."

"A bastard of incest," Dalabhar said. "Varys reports he is the bastard son of Cersei and Jaime Lannister. They cuckolded the late king and gave him a pair of horns. Apparently stag antlers were not enough for Robert and his wife was all the willing to provide. Nonetheless, the Lannisters have been ruling the royal court, fighting the Baratheon brothers even before the king's death. With Stannis on Dragonstone and Renly having fled to Highgarden, their influence should be undisputed."

"She cuckolded the Usurper?" Dany made a face as if she was unsure what to make of it. I partially wagered she was both shocked and somewhat delighted with Robert's line being non-existent. "Is there any proof?"

"Our spies report that was what Lord Eddard Stark was trying to find out," I informed her. "We'll have to see if it's true, of course, but I do think all of Cersei's children are illegitimate."

"We cannot be certain of that," the Summer Islander disagreed. "It could just be a ploy."

"Of course they are illegitimate," Dany shot back. "The Baratheons are false, only climbing the Iron Throne on the blood and bones of my kin. If the usurper's dogs fight amongst themselves, that'll mean there are less traitors for us to fight and they'll be all the weaker. I only wonder how Viserys would have felt should he have known our vengeance was so close to hand."

"He would in no doubt be thankful for the news," Dalabhar mused. "With his death, Westeros is bereft of its rightful king, but in his place is a young queen who has birthed dragons from the flames."

"The war will no doubt engulf the entire continent," I added. "Because of the nature of marriage alliances, lords will be drawn into the fighting and that will further weaken all the contenders for when we finally invade."

"We should contact houses sympathetic to our cause so, once we land, they can join their strength to ours," Daenerys decided.

Dalabhar shook his head. "I had put forth the notion to Blackheart that we contact none to minimise risk to our operations. Should word get loose that we are going to invade, the noble houses might put aside their differences and, with our strategy relying on shock and rapid dominance, it would work best if Westeros was unknowing. The less people know, the less likely someone will talk."

Laying beside Dany, Rhaegal stirred, opening his mouth to reveal two lines of black needle-sharp teeth. It stared at Dalabhar with eyes of molten bronze before growling. Dany stroked his neck to settle him. Adjutant wasn't disturbed in the slightest. He gave a short-lived glance at the dragon like it was a tiny dog. Seriously, what would it take to unsettle this man?

"I understand," she said, her voice was polite but carried a strength I had come to expect of her. "But we need allies in Westeros. We cannot win on our own against all those who will fight on behalf of the usurpers. I want you to put forth my idea. Speak to Ser Myles Toyne about it. Is my Lord Connington returning?"

"He is not, Your Grace. Ser Jon Connington is in the Disputed Lands, overseeing the men with the captain-general here."

"He is my regent; must I remind you?"

"Regent and officer of the Golden Company. As of now, the latter is more important than the former."

That didn't please her. "You are dismissed. Pray, close the door on your way out." The man bowed his head and took his leave. Daenerys Targaryen signed. "I am queen, but I don't feel like it. Half the people here treat me as a little girl and the other half fear me."

 _Why would a superstitious people fear a little girl walking into a burning pyre that melted armour and hatch dragons without a single mark upon her fair skin?_ "You are no queen yet, not officially. You have not been crowned in a ceremony."

"Viserys died and you proclaimed me queen."

"That was no official crowning. Even than, you can carry the title of Queen of the Seven Kingdoms but that won't mean anything until you sit the Iron Throne itself. Until then, you are merely a pretender, no different than the Blackfyres except you have more dragons than they did."

She bit her lip. "Viserys sold our mother's crown and people called him a beggar. It has been returned so men will call me queen. Yet even with the crown, with the army that has been sworn to me, I am a beggar still. The most powerful and splendid beggar in all the world, but a beggar all the same. I dislike it, Egg, as my brother must have. All the years of running from city to city, pleading for help from archons and princes and magisters, buying food with flattery and promises with no way to pay. He must have known they mocked him, and no wonder he turned so angry and bitter. It would do the same to me if I let it . . . and become no more than one of your ancestors, fighting for a throne that's getting further away."

"But unlike my ancestors, you have dragons. That'll make all the difference." _And other things that are less obvious_.

"Small ones," she smiled forcibly. "They are children, just as I was only a few months ago. I am no longer a child, Egg." Getting to her feet, the dragons took flight. Rhaellon skittered across the floor, wingtips scrabbling across the marble and up a table. Azantys' awoke, rising his head to stare down at them, watching with a straightened back as if about to pounce atop of Rhaegal and Viserion who were now play fighting. "I am only a young girl and unused to the ways of war, but I will tell you this, this changes everything. Had Westeros stood united, we would have failed like so many invaders. But divided, this is our chance. Should we strike now, while they are fighting and pawing at each other, they won't see us coming. There never was a better time to invade."

"We wait," I told her sternly. "We need further supplies. We need more horses and our stocks of wildfire have yet to be replenished. We should wait for the lords of Westeros to bleed each other dry. Even with all our strength, we will face a tough campaign. Westerosi is not going to fall into our hands once we land."

"I know that." She climbed over her scrabbling dragons, took my hands in hers and looked down at me with violet eyes. Her full, bow-shaped lips curled into a smile. "I am no frightened girl. Nor am I a fool. I have birthed dragons, burnt a khal and am queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The blood of the dragon. My brothers may have died, Viserys to his foolishness and the Usurper's knives, and Rhaegar to his hammer, but I'll do what they failed to do. Regardless of whether the son is his or not, we will defeat him."

"The dragons are tiny and pose no threat."

"The Trident proved that dragons can be killed, but so can dragonslayers. We're going to prove that. The both of us. You have built up the Golden Company into something else, but now's the time to strike. Let Westeros know the dragons have returned."

 _Here might be our first ripple_.

 **...**

Upon leaving Dany's apartments, Dalabhar escorted me down the beautifully decorated corridors of Illyrio's manse where I found Vaquo, likewise, heading for Lyra's chambers. He was awkwardly clutching a cluster of yellow flowers in his sweaty hands and looked to be complimenting the odds of walking into a tiger's den armoured in strips of bacon.

"Got yourself a lady love, Vac?" I asked with a half-smile. If that was true, I'd be surprised. Vaquo didn't do much outside of work. He was very diligent but never social. I would even go so far as to consider him asexual.

The plump Volantene turned to me. While our time outside the manse had thinned his features, it was only a momentary thing. Vaquo loved his food and Magister Illyrio indulged his guests on the finest. Now he stood with a round face covered with pale spots, icy blue eyes and white hair which was a messy tangle. He never cared much for presentation, but it seemed this time he put on some minor effort: a doublet of black velvet with intricate patterns of cloth-of-gold, a studded leather belt and a chain of black iron tight around his throat. "I do not understand."

"I believe Aegon was making a jest, Master Vaquo," my adjutant said. "Though I for one am surprised. Did you find them in Illyrio's garden or outside the walls? I never thought you would leave the manse."

"Inside," he admitted awkwardly. "I found them in the garden, the one that has the statue with a likeness to Aegon. They were near the trees. So many flowers of so many different colours. Lilacs and yellows, blue and red, deep violet and clear white. After what happened to Lyra, I knew she should be given something."

"That's considerate," I smiled at him. _I should have gotten her some flowers, come to think of it_.

"Are you trying to buy the witch's love?" Dalabhar asked, his deadpan tone betrayed by the slightest of half-smiles. "I would caution you about that. When I was a boy, we were told stories of witches using glamours and potions to make themselves beautiful and steal the hearts of young men who'd fallen for their charms. They steal your soul and use it for dark magic."

"No, it's not that," the Volantene said, taken aback. "I only wish her to get well. When my sister got sick with the flux, mother told me to visit Trianna's bedside and said it was most improper to not go without providing a gift to make her feel better. She never said what, but I knew she liked dresses, especially those with delicate yellow flowers, the kind made of Myrish lace that look like the ones here."

"Let's just hope Lyra likes them as much as your sister did then."

"Oh, she hated them and didn't want me in her chambers. Trianna instead asked the guards to take me out. Mother thought it was something I said."

"Did you say anything?"

"Not to my recollection." Shaking my head, I turned and led the way. As we walked, Vaquo piped up once more, sounding much more interested in this engagement. "Remember when I asked for permission to build a giant flamethrower so the dromonds could spray wildfire?"

"I remember being very reluctant."

"I can happily say I have crafted the first one. It is much larger in scale than the flamethrowers used by the pyromarines in battle and should be feared across the Narrow Sea."

"You sound confident," Dalabhar commented with scepticism.

"I made them," Vaquo declared, not sounding at all humble. "I've even drawn what it looks like on a ship. On the prow will be the nozzle, covered in bronze and mounted on a swivel so you can turn it around. It's more versatile, and crafted in the likeness of a dragon with its mouth open. Its aspect should be terrifying and the wildfire will be directed against the enemy vessels through a series of tubes coming from a brazier that heats the wildfire which is pushed outwards by a hand pump that can be used by either one man or two."

"Aren't you worried the brazier may ignite the wildfire?"

Vaquo shook his head in a manner like that was a ludicrous question. "No. The tank is sealed. I can show you the design later. It's to help keep the substance thin like water and ensures it doesn't become too thick. It goes up the pipe and out through the nozzle, igniting on the exposed flame in the mouth. The range should reach sixty feet."

"Sounds like it'll blow up," Dalabhar muttered. "We in the Summer Isles don't use wildfire as you do in Essos, nor do we ram our opponents craft. We have swan ships designed by the much vaulted Xanda Qo, and the best are built on the Isle of Koj. They don't have rams, though they do have large figurines on the bow. Instead, each ship is protected by a squadron of red archers wielding goldenheart bows. No sane pirates dare attack them. When I was younger, more so than Aegon, I was trained by my father as one. I sailed the Summer Isles, practising on the decks and had more than once fought corsairs, duelling arrows before forcing them to withdraw."

"Not your first kill, though?" I asked.

"My first kill was a Blackcoat Jaguar with nothing but a sharpened stone when I was twelve. Where I was born, you are not a true man until you have shed blood. My people are considered much more warlike then those of the other islands. That is because if corsairs and slavers come, we're among the first they stumble across. It is a rite of passage and before the uniting of the isles, my people were among the most feared in battle."

"And why was that?"

"As we have restrictions on who can marry, my people were so feared because we had hordes of young men who were not allowed to lay with a woman until they had first killed a man. It was among the best motivation one can get. We still follow the traditions now, though we no longer fight amongst our neighbours as we used to . . . well, except for when I was exiled."

"You told me that story." _And it was a long one_.

"I hope it didn't bore you."

"On the contrary," I smirked at him. "You should write it down. It can be an adventure story and mayhaps I produce it on the printing press. The adventures of Dalabhar the Exiled Prince."

"I don't understand," Vaquo began only for me to interrupt.

"Maybe if you cared to ask him, or why he was so competent at near everything."

There was a reason Myles had given me Dalabhar as an subordinate officer and after a few weeks of him doing my job for me, I had asked why he was so learned, to which he told me his life story as people in this world tend to do. Dalabhar had been born in Tamarinu, the easternmost peninsula of Jhala otherwise known as the Golden Head, and firstborn son of Prince Dabaku Ebaharo. He had travelled around the Summer Isles, trading with the other islands and even going as far as Volantis before coming back to discover a rival from his youth had fabricated a claim to some valuable land which included a very profitable trading port and shipyard that Dalabhar had expanded on behalf of his father. "A scheming little toad he was," my adjutant had said, "after beating him as a child, he was always looking for vengeance and was determined to get it." But the wars of the Summer Isles were like tourneys and highly ritualised, with two opposing teams meeting at a chosen field consecrated in advance by priests where only the warriors were harmed. But Dalabhar was Tywinesque and instead of doing that – and foolishly I might add – had instead summoned some of his most trusted companions and killed the rival and his men with goldenheart bows that were forbidden. Old Prince Dabaku Ebaharo was not amused in the slightest and swiftly exiled his son, stripping him of his betrothed, future throne and family name. "I didn't have to abandon the family name," Dalabhar had explained as we drank in the tent that night. "I had come to regret my decision which had been done in the foolishness of youth. Hot blooded I was, and vengeful. I dishonoured my family by continuing to bear the name Ebaharo so I become only Dalabhar." And thus, Dalabhar was exiled to Essos where he found work with the free companies fighting in the Disputed Lands, first with the Stormbreakers then the Company of the Cat. After an ambush on the Rhoyne, Dalabhar was captured by the Volantenes, put in chains and soon in the fighting pits of Astapor, as well as having a side gig of serving as his master's bookkeeper. Suffice to say, he survived and brought his own freedom, no doubt aided by some creative accounting and skimming some of the coin off the top.

Outside Lyra's door, both Damon and Qarro stood guard. They saluted but, knowing them, I couldn't tell whether they were being sarcastic. "Haven't got the dragon, I see," Damon said with his characteristic lazy smile.

"He's sleeping. Besides, I don't think the precious Lady Lyra would desire to meet them. Doubt she's a fan."

Qarro snickered. "I still can't believe you hatched dragons, or the girl did. Who's such a fool to walk into a burning pyre?"

"I still can't believe he's a Blackfyre," Damon muttered. "I pray you don't remember when I punched out your babe's teeth during training when you're finally sitting the Iron Throne as king over us all."

"I didn't but now you've reminded me," I put a finger to my chin and hummed. "How to punish all those who've struck me . . . How about the Wall?"

"I would rather die than have my cock freeze off in that wasteland," the bastard declared.

"It might make keeping your oaths a little easier."

"Only you can put as much value in your cock as you do to your life," Dalabhar commented.

"Of course," the young man said. "Without a cock you have no life. Without a cock, how can you enjoy natures pleasures like a woman moaning beneath you, or pissing up a tree? So Aegon, have you finally fucked the dragon queen? Showed her your Blackfyre? Slid your sword in her sheath?"

"Why in the gods name have I got guard duty with you?" Qarro wondered aloud. "Young Griff, why do you torture me?"

I rolled my eyes. "Because I trust you to do your duty. And Damon, no, I have not. We're not married."

"I wouldn't wait to fuck her. She's petite, yes, and bald, but comely still. Anyone in their right mind would be trying to make her scream."

I wasn't amused. "Daenerys is your queen. You will shut your mouth and treat her with respect else I'll cut your tongue out." My tone surprised even me and that was enough for Damon to shut his yap. He apologised and opened the door.

"I heard you on the other side. Glad to know you took your time," Lyra acknowledged us in bed as we entered. Her face was gaunt but she looked better, though that wasn't saying much. This was the first time I had seen her since the funeral. Turning to Vaquo, her lips curled into an amused smile. "Am I correct in assuming you're trying to woo me, Volantene? If so, I'm flattered."

Vaquo fidgeted awkwardly. "These were a gift—"

"Are you _trying_ to court me?" Lyra asked, raising an eyebrow. "I never thought I would catch the eye of one of the Old Blood of Volantis. I thought you could never lay with those outside your bloodline."

"That is inaccurate. We are encouraged to keep the line pure, but many times we marry another Old Blood or a prominent member of the lower nobility. Some are even born of bedslaves should they carry Valyrian features. Though they are looked upon with distrust, they still carry the blood of Old Valyria."

"Well, I thank you for coming and the gift, though the little history of Volatene marriage customs was unwarranted," Lyra said with the sincerest smile I had ever seen on her. "They are lovely, and the gesture was sweet. It is nice to see someone had gotten me something – Aegon."

"Dalabhar didn't get you anything either," I shot back.

"He gifts me with his presence. What's all I need from him." She winked.

"Now I feel dirty," the Summer Islander commented wryly to which Lyra chuckled.

Fidgeting, Vaquo glanced around awkwardly at everywhere but Lyra. "I should be taking my leave. No doubt you have much to talk about." He didn't salute nor bow his head, only turn and stop before the door. "Where do I put these?" I offered a hand and he gifted me the plants. Vaquo immediately left. If we weren't used to him doing this, it would have been considered rude.

"I miss him already," Lyra sighed when the door closed behind Vaquo, and Dalabhar joined the guardsmen outside. "And you didn't get me anything. Some friend you are, not even offering flowers to show you care." She pouted.

I put Vaquo's to the side. "I brought you my mind and my wits. That's all you need."

"I'm so fortunate," she snorted and let the silence linger for a moment before sitting up, relaxing her shoulders and shouting, " _What the Mother Rhoyne is wrong with you?"_

"What? What are you talking about?" I came in to give her thanks for all she had done and never expected her to suddenly yell. _No doubt Haldon will call this woman hysterical_.

"What I'm talking about? I'm talking about you bending the knee to your inferior. Is that what you want? To kiss this child's feet as they stomp all over you?"

I frowned. It didn't take a genius to know who she was referring to. They'd never seen eye to eye and that coldness had no doubt gotten worse after Daenerys walked into the flames. No one expected that; not even me.

"I vow to serve you, to die for you if needs be," she mocked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's sweet, Egg. Very sweet. I'm sure that if I was one of your Westerosi maidens, I would have collapsed from lack of breath. How very chivalrous of you."

"She is the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I was only paying her the courtesies she was owed."

"You owe her nothing. Daenerys Targaryen is a powerless girl whose supporters can be silenced with a word. Her title is nothing but empty air and even the dragons won't do her any good. You could easily take them for yourself. I would even go as far as to say she's useless at this point. You don't even need a claim with dragons. Westeros would bend the knee to you and you alone. You can proclaim yourself the Bloodstone Emperor and reform the Great Empire of the Dawn and they'll have to bend the knee else they burn. You don't need her to drape a maiden cloak over your shoulders, or are you so inexperienced with women that you immediately kneel between her legs as soon as she gives you a little kiss and flutters her eyelashes?"

I bristled and my words came out as a low growl, "You know what, I like to think I have thick skin. I like to imagine insults run off my back like water off a duck, but you are seriously trying my patience. You have been trying my patience for a while by being most insufferable and grating human being on the planet. If I wasn't so thankful for what you've done, and if you weren't abed, I would throw you out the manse and let you walk back to the shitheap you lived in when we first met."

"You can't do that. You need me."

"I _needed_ you. I don't need you now. As you just said, I have dragons. I have wildfire and people with the knowledge to build more of it. You were useful than, but now?" I chuckled darkly and walked around the room, inspecting the vials on the shelves lining the walls. They made an impressive display, hundreds of pots both great and small, of clay and glass, full of liquids and dry herbs, each container neatly labelled with Lyra's precise hand. I noted sweetsleep and nightshade, milk of the poppy, powdered nightcap, demon's dance, wolfsbane to more exotic toxins like basilisk and manticore venom, blindeye and widow's blood to even ones like the strangler and tears of Lys. I turned around and Lyra was staring daggers. _If looks could kill . . ._

"You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?" I cocked my head to the side. "You know, Lyra, you're not half as important as you like to think you are. You have skills, yes, but they are not essential. Not anymore. You are a pretentious woman with delusions of grandeur. If you decide to leave, I'd let you go and you'll get no tears from me. Westeros will look on me better because of it, no doubt." I paused to let her respond, and the silence was deafening. "I do not consider myself unforgiving and I learnt a lot so I looked past your various faults. But if you are going to continue alongside me, you will have to improve your attitude so you don't alienate anyone enough for them to stab you - and myself - in the back because you can't keep that damned tongue to yourself."

She muttered a curse in her own language. "Mayhaps I should just leave. It's clear you don't want me."

"I don't want you pissing off the Westerosi nobility, what's what I don't want, and I know you won't leave. What have you got to gain? We both know ours is a partnership built of convenience and while I do enjoy our conversations, your barbed tongue will turn into a serious problem I'll need to deal with. But if you are going to leave, tell me now."

She glared for a moment before relenting with gritted teeth. "I have no desire to return, not yet at least. I will remain at your side, Blackfyre, so if I must smile and act your lovely lady, I'll do so even if it'll kill me on the inside. Yet that doesn't change the fact _she's_ unprepared for queenship. You desire her to rule, yet she has no experience and—"

"I understand that problem and have made preparations. Her inexperience won't be a problem because, at the end of the day, I'm going be in control."

Lyra scoffed. "How are you going to do that?"

"The very empathetic Daenerys suffers from chronic hero syndrome. She sees injustice and her first action will be to try and fix it, even if it goes against her own self-interests. It'll be quite easy to take advantage of. Other than that, we've got a few years before she holds authority in her own right. During that time, I plan to educate her. She is being taught by Haldon and Lemore and I've faith in her."

"You are deluded," Lyra snarled, distaste dripping from her voice. "Westeros will hold no love for a scheming leech. What has she achieved compared to us? If not for me, the dragons would not have hatched. If not for you, the Triarchy would still be a bunch of bickering city states. It was you who did that. You achieved more than what most politicians achieved in multiple generations and you're still a beardless boy, even if your mind is older than your face. You have proven yourself more capable than she could ever be. Yet you bend your knee to _her_."

"I would advise you to be careful with your words if you still desire to speak." _And the dragons hatched because of Daenerys. Not you_. The annoying thing was what Lyra wasn't the only one with those doubts. Despite bending the knee, some had done so more reluctantly than others. Myles was one of them and had grown worried with Daenerys proving herself more of a dragon than myself. I turned back around, found what I was looking for and sneaked it up my sleeve. _You won't be missing that_.

I was about to leave when she hissed, "You are not leaving until I get my answer, Blackfyre. You see this?" I turned to see her pointing at her face where her eyes had sunken in deep, where her skin stretched taut against her cheekbones. Lyra had a sickly, half-dead appearance. "I don't know why your little queen stepped into the pyre or how she managed to suck the very life from my body, so answer me this if you have any respect for me, and don't try to steal. I am bedridden, not blind."

I sighed, pulled out a chair and took a seat. _Might as well. I owe her that much_."Why do you care who rules Westeros? I know you have no desire to remain there."

"I don't. But you're not the only one with grand ambitions. You know what I want when all this is done? I want to return to my shitheap, as you so eloquently described it. It is only that way because of what your ancestors did to mine. The Rhoyne was once beautiful and rich and powerful, with cities of canals and fountains, elaborate temples and palaces. My desire is to return my people to greatness after all the humiliations they've suffered from the Rhoynish wars and Garlan the Great to Princess Nymeria and her ten thousand ships. What I desire is a return to the days of when the Rhoyne was a place worthy of existing and not left to the river's mercy. I want a single princedom instead of bickering states, one powerful enough to turn back any invasion so such humiliations can never happen again."

 _Irredentism_. "And how does Daenerys not fit into your Greater Rhoynish State?" _No doubt ruled by yourself._ "Is it because you fear she'll refuse?"

Lyra looked away. "You and her may have lost both your homes, but so have I. My people have lost so much more. Our customs, religion and traditions have nearly been destroyed. Dorne is no more than a bastard cousin for they've assimilated in large part with the Andals who lived there first. Our lands have been given to slavers and turtles and you can still see the ruins of what once was. I'm sure you can understand. But her? Once she sits the Iron Throne, why should she concern herself with Essos? Oh, she may reward me, but that'll be a pittance and not enough. I have a desire to learn all that I can, that is true, but what use is learning if you don't use it? I want to use the knowledge I've learnt for my people. For their prosperity and greater good."

 _You just want someone more indebted to you than a girl with no reason to go against the might of Volantis and Qohor and whatever peoples living there now_. There was a pregnant pause before I softly said, "I do think we can come to an arrangement. After Westeros is taken, I do have certain plans for Essos that can come to fruition easier if we have an ally who happened to be situated on a very prominent river . . ."

She saw where I was going and smiled, before it flickered. "Will you though? What is saying she'll agree with what you want, let alone me?"

"How much power does Daenerys hold truly? Myles and Illyrio are loyal to me despite their vocal criticisms of late, and the Golden Company's allegiance to Daenerys derives from myself." If Dany and I did come to odds, I was in a perfect position to stage a coup. I had founded the modern Golden Company with the help of Myles Toyne, led men into battle and crafted a devastating military machine that had been successful in Essos and about to be tested in the fields of Westeros. Daenerys was utterly at my mercy.

"That is what I do not understand. Why do you want her to be queen? If you have all these plans, why her?"

"The answer, Lyra, is simple. I don't want the throne. I don't desire to sit a mountain of twisted iron blades nor try and keep the good graces of scheming nobles. If you don't remember, my parents are both Essosi. One's a trader and the other's a slave who was forced to work in the brothels of Lys. Both of whom are too lowborn for the Westerosi lords and worked in trades considered unacceptable."

"Many great men began with little more than nothing."

"I'm sure that wasn't in a system as deeply entrenched as Westeros. You want to know what happened in the Riverlands when some adventurer of low birth made himself king? His dynasty spent its existence just fighting to survive. The last Teague king was called the Saddle-sore for he spent his entire reign ending rebellions and hanging hostages. If I proclaim myself king, imagine something like that, but on a much grander scale." _Not counting assassination attempts. The fact I have dragons would ensure they'll rather use cloak and dagger despite the many taboos_.

"Then kill all the lords then. Storm their castles and put their families to the sword. When the dragons grow large enough, turn their castles into molten slag as a warning to the others. Rise up people loyal to yourself and they'll be forced to take your side as all their power and authority will derive from you."

"The latter is what I'm doing with Daenerys. What you had suggested is simplistic and bound to fail. Maegor the Cruel was the closest to attempting such a thing and even he stayed his hand. The smallfolk fought a war against his tyranny while the lords sharpened their knives for the opportunity to slice his throat. He burnt down castles, set forests alight to flush out bandits and had the most formidable dragon in existence and he _failed_. Daenerys is needed because she carries legitimacy. She comes from a recently disposed line of kings. The Blackfyres were never kings and their influence has long since eroded. Would you join a group that lost all the wars they fought? No, you won't. To achieve what I truly desire for Westeros and later the Free Cities, I need Daenerys to sit the Iron Throne. A pleasant face to calm the lords while I work in the shadows, slowly changing the very structure of government. House Blackfyre will come to an end. Not through swords, but through marriage. A more fitting end for such a story, I like to believe."

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the long wait. This chapter took a bit longer than expected due to multiple re-edits. I'm still not completely happy with it, but I felt like I should post something or I might post nothing at all. I hoped you enjoyed this chapter and hopefully the next few will be uploaded sooner and will speed the story along. As always, I'd like to thank everyone's who has reviewed, followed and favourited. Your support means a lot.

Comments:

AlexFalTon: Drogon's a cool name, but sadly has no place here.

victorsan12345: Daenerys has the right to be angry with the Baratheons and Lannisters. They were involved in killing her family and leaving her and Viserys to wander the Free Cities. It is the standard mindset for characters in-universe to see anything they lost as being stolen from them and need to get back. For Aegon, he was angry at Lyra for insulting him and that why he acted the way he did.

Najex: I feel a bit sorry for Dany in some ways as well. But despite the plotting, she's safe and in a better position than canon.

Guest: Daenerys will be educated on the subject of power later on. It's something she needs.

VladImpaler: The Rhoyne, even from the beginning, had been quite prominent. I've found Westeros quite isolationist when it came to the world stage and having allies in Essos would be beneficial. For Lyra, she's been inspired by what Aegon achieved and that laid the groundwork for her Rhoynish ambitions. What she suffered wasn't fatal. Despite having her strength drained as a cost for the hatching, she'll recover. For the ending, what needed to be said was said, and I wanted Lyra's reaction to be ambiguous.

WillowingBranches: I'm quite surprised to. Many times, the real power came from the Hand or regent. There were plenty of kings who were little more than figureheads for powerful individuals. Granted, it relies on how diligent the ruler is, but should _anyone_ be able to get close to a monarch and hold influence over them, they can be extremely powerful. Or in this fic's case, what better way to secure power than holding both the first and second most powerful positions in the realm?

Tartarus0884: Maybe only for the moment. I expect both to have disputes on how everything should work, especially when it comes to government. I wouldn't say Aegon would be lord of nothing. He can always be granted lands such as Summerhall or even the lands originally belonging to House Blackfyre. It seems to be a running theme many of Aegon's plans backfire so you might be onto something.


	24. Chapter 20: Infiltration

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 20: Infiltration**

* * *

It was in the training room where I found Adjutant Dalabhar sparring against Ser Rolly Duckfield with a formidable two-handed axe that, if not blunted, could easily split a boar in half with a single swing. I stood on the side-lines and watched the two go back and forth with Duck usually on the back foot, red-faced and panting as he used all his skill just to survive against the seven-foot-tall giant who remained deathly silent as he moved with calculated feints and strikes. It was clear as to why Haldon compared him to Sandoq the Shadow.

"Ladies," I called abruptly. Both stopped to turn to me. Duck threw off his battered helm, the heavy padding beneath and spat out some blood. "Good to see you both training in arms. I was looking for the both of you so it's fortunate you're in the same place. I need some trusted men around me for what I have planned."

"What you've planned?" Rolly grimaced in pain, ran a finger along his teeth, than cursed colourfully. "What are you talking about, Young Griff?"

"I had a dream – a dragon dream – a few nights ago. You know the kind. With the recent news from Westeros and after some consideration, I think we should go on a little trip to King's Landing. Only us three and no one else. _No one can know_." The last thing I needed was anyone getting word of what I had planned. In no way would it be authorised.

Dalabhar eyed me cryptically. "King's Landing? That's on the other side of the Narrow Sea and the stronghold of the Lannister branch of the Baratheon dynasty, purportedly. Are you such a fool to want to visit there, or only suicidal? You'd be strung up as soon as they realise who you are."

 _A bit of both to be honest. I died once. I might just resurrect in another body should I die again_. An unhealthy way of thinking, truth be told, but did hold certain advantages. "You remember those dragon dreams I have?"

"Whenever you want something done you claim to have one. Seems to me they are very convenient dreams, if I may speak freely." Dalabhar didn't sound amused and he wasn't wrong. Dragon dreams were my excuse whenever I needed to tamper with the strings of fate. With what I'd done and my Targaryen ancestry, most didn't question it.

"A few nights ago, I dreamt of a little wolf pup watching her big wolfish father be slain before her as she hid in a crowd of animals. The crowd was cheering their approval and a lion, just barely a cub, ordered it whilst the lion king's court spoke against to no avail. I think it's a sign."

"I wouldn't claim that's a dragon dream. Not enough dragons in it."

"There might have been a dragon or two in the crowd."

The Summer Islander rolled his eyes. "What it seems to me is that big wolf is Lord Eddard Stark and the Lannisters will kill him in a public execution. I thought dreams were meant to be subtle."

"Mine aren't. I have a feeling Arya Stark or the other one, Sansa, is not in Lannister hands. Surely if Lord Eddard was smart, he would have sent his children away from King's Landing before launching his coup. Would you let your children be in the centre of such a dangerous plot and risk them being killed or captured? The dream tells us she isn't in the lions' paws, so no doubt she's alone and in need of rescue."

The Summer Islander half-laughed, half-snorted. "And I wager your idea is to cross the Narrow Sea and get yourself a valuable hostage to use against the Starks. If you weren't planning to sail into the most heavily guarded city in the Seven Kingdoms, I wouldn't consider you a rash fool."

I chuckled and held a finger before Azantys who was laid across my shoulders. The purple dragon nuzzled my finger, nipping it with the side of his mouth. It was surprising how cat-like these creatures could be and in no way was I complaining. I wasn't liking the fact I couldn't bring him along with us, but a dragon perched atop my shoulders would raise some interesting questions I didn't desire to answer. Instead he would be left in Daenerys' gentle care. She had taken it upon herself to learn all she could about dragons and now spent a considerable time with her nose deep in whatever books claimed to know about them. To say Dany was obsessed would be an understatement.

"It could be considered foolish, Dalabhar, but I never got anywhere by playing safe. If I wasn't taking risks, I wouldn't have a mage nor engineers in my employ. We won't have flamethrowers and dragons. Nor would the Golden Company be in the position it is in now. This operation will be high risk, I'll grant you, but will bring a high reward. I think I might be the chanciest gambler in the world."

"I am no fan of gambling."

"That I can see," I allowed, though I smirked at Duck who looked conflicted. "What do you say, ser?"

"You are usually right about these dreams of yours, Aegon," he allowed. "But I fear this is biting off more than you can chew. You want to infiltrate King's Landing, just us three, and steal a lord's daughter? This is foolish. What if Illyrio and Blackheart find out? They'll have our heads."

"Not if we return with Lord Stark's daughter. She's a great prize and I'm sure Myles will look the other way if not reward you on the spot. I certainly would with lands, honours and lots of gold. Myles Toyne is famously open-handed to those who've impressed him, and that's not counting Daenerys and her future consort who would no doubt reward men who've proven themselves in their service."

"I still urge against it," the Summer Islander sighed. "I fear we'll prove unable to fight our way out should the worst happen. This seems most likely with the chance of succeeding near impossible. How can you hope to find this Stark in a city that numbers near a million inhabitants? No doubt there'll be young girls with similar features as her. Do you even know what she looks like? Did your dream tell you that?"

"I have a feeling I know where to find her. You've got to trust me." Dalabhar scoffed. He wasn't a man that like going on blind faith. "Are you with me? This needs to be secret and we need to reach King's Landing as soon as possible. No one else can know about this. Especially my father and the rest of the officers. This is strictly us. Got it?"

"I am unsure, lad," Rolly said cautiously. "This is very dangerous."

"I cannot accept this fool's errand," Dalabhar answered, putting his weapon back on the racking.

"What if I tell you this is an order?" My voice grew hard and the dragon on my shoulders rose higher as if he was doing his part to intimidate them. I didn't have eyes in the back of my head, but I wagered it looked more cute than outright threatening. "While I officially command only a hundred men, I am the last Blackfyre and that fact alone makes me among the most influential people in the Golden Company. Not only am I a higher rank, you both swore to serve me directly in whatever way I might decree. I don't desire to pull rank, but if I tell you to jump, the only question you should ask is how far. If I tell you to sail to Westeros with me, you shouldn't be asking any questions other than when. Will you refuse my order?"

Duck shuffled awkwardly but Dalabhar only folded his broad arms behind his back, lifted his chin and said, "I pledged an oath to serve the Golden Company and have sworn to personally serve you in all matters. I cannot refuse, regardless of my wishes. I will follow."

"And you, Duck?"

"I did promise to protect you, lad. With you going regardless of my objections, I feel duty bound to follow. Should I abandon a friend to fight this battle alone, I would never forgive myself."

I inclined my head. "I thank you both. I don't want to do this, but it feels I must. We should pack and quick. Dalabhar, you will find a ship to take us to Westeros. The sooner the better. A fast one. I care not for accommodations."

Dalabhar nodded. "Your will be done, Aegon Blackfyre."

"And me?" Duck asked.

"Just get ready. Make sure we have ample coin. We might need to bribe a few men and I would rather pay too much than too little." I gave them a thankful smile and left the training room, fingering the vial of sweepsleep I'd taken from Lyra's chambers. _Now I need to dispatch the guards on the back gate. Let's hope I don't overdo it_.

 **...**

There were many stories of King's Landing, and one of the most infamous of which was the smell. As I stood atop the deck of the _Scented Merchant_ , I smelt it not long after seeing the city on the horizon. "King's Landing. We should be there within the hour," Duck told me as we leaned on the rails of the galley.

Beside me, my ginger companion was grinning with a hungry look. We had been on the ship longer than I desired but we made good time regardless. The captain was an olive-skinned Myrishman going by the name Qos the One-Eye. He spoke the Common Tongue well enough with a strong accent and had sailed the Narrow Sea for thirty odd years, first as an oarsman, quartermaster and finally a captain. The _Scented Merchant_ had two masts, seventy oars and was the fastest ship heading to King's Landing. Dalabhar ensured me the captain and crew would keep their lips tight, provided we pay each sailor a silver stag and the captain a gold dragon. Rolly had been cautious, saying how they might throw us into the sea. I doubted they would do that. Rolly could cut down half the crew if they dared anything and Dalabhar would do the other half, and the man knew how to sail a ship from his days in the Summer Isles.

"This ship's fast, with talented oars and two large sails," I shrugged my shoulders artlessly. "I just pray the silver's enough."

"I had a word with the captain," Dalabhar said as he approached from the prowl of the ship. "He won't say a word of our presence. Why would he? We are merely sellswords who heard of war in the Sunset Kingdoms and desire the gold of Casterly Rock."

On deck, he was easily the largest person here. While me and Duck wore gambesons and had swords at our hips, Dalabhar had stripped from his mail and instead wore the ragged clothes of a common sailor and very much looked the part, having wordlessly helped the crew with hauling cargo with one arm when others needed two. We needed disguises for infiltrating King's Landing. I was Griffin once more, though this time I had dyed my hair black instead of blue. Not only did it look better, it would ensure I didn't stand out like a sore thumb. I also decided to give myself an accent which ended up sounding vaguely French, so I might claim to be a Reachman or something.

"If you say so, sir."

My hand throbbed in pain and I grimaced. It hurt to bend my fingers and the bandages were bound tight enough to ensure they wouldn't. It just happened to be my sword hand as well so, if we got caught in a fight, I would need to use my left if not outright rely on my two companions. It made me near as useless as Jaime post-amputation but unlike him and lacking the famous Lannister wit, I wouldn't even be able to lay down pretty brutal verbal beatdowns whenever I felt like it. It was most inconvenient.

The trading galley skimmed the water with long slender oars rising and falling in perfect time. I stared at the city of King's Landing, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, the economical and political fount of the ruling king and the most populous city on the continent. In no way did anything I hear or read of King's Landing do the city justice. Unlike the cities of Essos that had urban planning more or less as a standard, what laid before me looked like a tumour of human habitation planted on the mouth of a river.

Three hundred years ago, the land before me would instead have been covered with forests and tiny villages where humble fisherfolk lived on the shores of Blackwater Rush and the deep, swift river flowed into the sea from the God's Eye. This was where Aegon the Conqueror first landed on mainland Westeros with his host from Dragonstone. Riding Balerion, he landed atop the largest hill and erected the Aegon Fort, a redoubt of wood and earth to serve as his base of operations.

What had been a fishing village swiftly turned into a town and that town grew into a city that stretched as far as the eyes could see. The shore was covered with manses and arbors and granaries, brick storehouses and timbered inns and merchant stalls, taverns and graveyards and brothels, all piled one atop the other with no space been left to waste. Even from a distance, I could hear the city, the clamour of the fish markets and general rumble of the city's denizens. A hundred quays lined the waterfront and the docks were absolutely crowded with ships. Deepwater fishing boats brought in the days catch, river runners coming and going, ferrymen sailing up and down the Blackwater Rush, ornate barges with gilding and roaring Lannister sails, fat-bellied whalers from the Port of Ibben, trading galleys, ocean sailing carracks and cogs loading or unloading cargo. There were the vividly painted Swan Ships of the Summer Isles with their large figureheads of birds, the galleys of Lys, Tyrosh and Braavos and many others. Together they had turned the waterfront into a forest of swaying masts and colourful sails. Upriver, a dozen lean golden warships waited in their cribs, sails furled and iron rams lapping at the water. Duck pointed then to the wooden shells of several massive war galleys being constructed. That was when I knew the Royal Fleet was stronger than originally expected.

As taking the capital was the main objective of my campaign, I made a point to check out the defences and they honestly intimidated me. Rising above the entire city, frowning down from Aegon's High Hill, was the Red Keep; made of seven huge drum-towers crowned with iron ramparts, an immense grim barbican, vaulted halls and covered bridges. No doubt the castle was a city in of itself with barracks for the garrison, servants' quarters, residences for nobles and large granaries to last a siege. Circling the city proper were stout, thick walls made of pale brick and red stone, lined with towers and archer nests while scorpions and spitfires stood at the ready. Those walls would be a tough nut to crack, having been designed to throw back any possible assault and built with the resources of an entire kingdom. Even with multiple investments to siegecraft, I questioned whether I'd done enough.

"This King's Landing?" Dalabhar asked in a voice flat and uncaring. "Can't say I'm impressed. Essos must have soiled my expectations."

I couldn't help but chuckle at Dalabhar's lack of shits. I did have plans to remedy that. Sometime in the future, King's Landing would be a beautiful city that'll have everything a true honest capital needs and could ever want. I could imagine it now. It'll be a mix of Lys and Myr, an advanced centre of learning that'll bring in people from all over. A city of culture and intellect with public health that'll make the Romans cry out in envy. I imagined organised urban planning with grid streets and long, straight wide boulevards organised for ease of movement, with effective sanitation and drinking water available to all. Much of the city would need to be demolished, true, but it'll be worth it. When all is done, it'll be my Alexandria – the polished jewel of my empire.

Captain Qos One-Eye shouted a command and at once, the oars lifted from the waves, reversed and backed water, slowing the galley. Another shout and the oars slipped back inside the hull. We thumped against the dock and the sailors leapt down to tie the ship up. The captain walked over to us, a large sloped shouldered man with an eyepatch and a smile plastered across his broad face. "King's Landing, Master Griffin, as you commanded. Never has there been a ship swifter and safer than mine own. Will you be needing assistance to carry your things to a lodge?" He smiled with yellow teeth that'd been smashed to oblivion.

I smiled my best smile. "No need, captain. I have my own people to carry my things. Though perhaps you could suggest somewhere clean and comfortable. There are bound to be a few lodges I'm sure you're aware of. This isn't your first visit to King's Landing I'm aware."

He grinned. "Just so. I know several establishments that may suit your needs. There are many more in King's Landing, but most tend to be of ill repute and not for those of good breeding like yourself. You should try the _Weary Traveller._ It provides good food and beds free of lice. It tends to be crowded so if they are, try the _Drunken Stag_ which might as well be a brothel. I would visit those two. But first, before you go, might I be so bold to ask for the rest of the payment agreed upon? Forty silver, if my memory serves correctly."

"Forty silver," I agreed, glancing at Rolly. "Be a good Duck and pay the man. The coin is in the strongbox." I smiled sweetly and the knight hurried off to the cabin we stayed in. "For the oarsmen. I'll pay them myself."

"You think that is wise, Master Griffin? These men are sailors away from home. Your coin will not last them. They will dice it away or spend it on whores for a night's pleasure. Mayhaps you'll do better and give me the coin so I can give it to their wives when they return to Myr."

I never let the smile leave my face. "What they spend it on is their choice, captain. Be it drinks, dice or to lay between a woman's legs. It is not our responsibility. What they spend their coin on is up to them."

"As you say," the captain said, bowing his head, though he looked slightly annoyed as well.

To ensure the crew were properly bribed, we paid them ourselves. We didn't bring much with us and what we did have was easily carried by Dalabhar who doubled as an effective bulldozer. We didn't visit the _Weary Traveller_ that was situated on the docks. Instead, we went deeper in the city and found a lodge not suggested by the captain. The wizened old woman who owned it looked Dalabhar over suspiciously but asked no questions. As my adjutant carried our luggage to our room, Duck and myself stayed in the commons to eat a plate of hard black bread no doubt stuffed with sawdust, fish stew and greasy bacon. The food was nothing to write home about and as soon as we finished, retired to our single room on the top floor that was large and had decent bedding.

While Rolly and Dalabhar made themselves comfortable – with the former offering to instead sleep in the chair in the corner – I threw open the windows and looked outside at the alleys and small gardens of the neighbouring buildings. The air was hot and the smell was near bad enough to bring the food back up again. George's writing weren't sufficient warning for the city's stench. It carried with it the sharp smell of fish and meat - both fresh and rotting - newly baked bread and sour wine, of sweet fragrances and cheap perfumes, men's sweat and the sharp scents of human refuge, tar, wood chips and a hundred different animals wandering the streets. I swung the windows shut but the damage was done.

We would need to begin the search soon as possible. I had a clue where Arya Stark would be, but I didn't know what she looked like. _If there's a girl chasing pigeons and has a well-forged blade on her, that's our girl_. At least I knew where she would be during a certain execution so I would need to be there when the time came.

 **...**

We spent several days in King's Landing, waking up at first light to comb through a massive city to find a tiny girl with brown hair and grey eyes, a scrawny little thing hiding among thousands of other scrawny things with the same coloured features. It was no easy feat as we patrolled the streets, swords at our hips just visible enough to discourage anyone who'd dare trouble us, and there was always trouble ranging from corrupt gold cloaks to thugs who'd murder us for our boots.

I cursed under my breath as we pushed through the crowds that sought to halt us. Lining the narrow winding streets were buildings rising tall and crooked, pressing against each other and certain to collapse should a single beam fall. While King's Landing had some broad avenues – usually before the main gates – most streets and alleys were so narrow it was near impossible for more than two to walk abreast. Through the buildings I occasionally glimpsed Visenya's Hill crowned with the Great Sept of Baelor with its seven crystal towers and vast dome of white marble. I decided to remain near the Great Sept because that was the location Eddard was to be executed and I would need to be close for when it happened. As tempted as we were, we couldn't afford to split off. Not only was it never good in the stories when the group did so, I couldn't risk the safety of any of us and, as the person who ordered them here, I did feel personally responsible for their well-being. The last thing I needed was any of us getting stabbed in an alley. I doubted most would want to risk it against those two, but the threat was there.

Taking a turn and passing through a crowd being riled by up a septon in a shabby tunic of human hair and loudly praying late King Robert's sins be forgiven, we reached the Streets of Flour. It was another location I remembered Arya visiting. Thanks to this being where all the bakers worked, this street smelled much nicer than the rest of the city. It was scented with fresh bread and pastries and cakes, fresh fruit and meats used for the fillings of countless pies. More than once we brought the baker's food and used them to bribe the sweet urchins of information. My attempt to forge my own intelligence network kind of fell flat seeing as the information we received was too broad and, most likely, completely inaccurate. I couldn't remember what Arya called herself, or if she called herself anything other than Arya at this point. The lack of information left me in the dark.

The Street of Flour wasn't the only place we searched. We scoured the city top to bottom. We even visited Flea Bottom and all the various pot shops selling bowl o' brown that had been stirring in vast tubs for years at a time. That part of King's Landing looked like the slums you would find in a third-world country and just walking through them made me throw up. Flea Bottom needed to change dramatically, and should it accidentally be burnt down by dragonfire, I didn't think it would matter all that much. It was a puss-filled tumour clinging to the side of Rhaenys' Hill, stinking of pigsties, dyers and tanner's sheds, a den of crime and debauchery controlled by various crime families who used the city watch as their own private muscle. The few times we did visit Flea Bottom, we usually stuck to the outskirts. We did, however, traverse the docks every day to see if young Arya was looking for ships. That quest never bore fruit. There was a ship though, with household guards in heavy grey woollen cloaks and silver pins wrought in the shape of the direwolf of House Stark. They were no Northmen, but instead Lannister men in disguise and we learnt to stay away from them, just as Arya must have done.

Talk of the street was that the gold cloaks had thrown their lot in with the Lannisters - which I already knew - and were searching the city for Stark loyalists and the daughter. It was perhaps fortunate local law enforcement was under the command of Janos Slynt (Lord Slynt now, and one must not forget that if you desire to keep your kneecaps) and therefor unbelievably corrupt, so it was no hard feat to pay them for information. It ended up they were Varys' men and the eunuch found me on only the second day.

It was after a day of searching and getting lost countless times that we returned to the lodge only to find Varys waiting for us in the common room. It'll be honest and say I never expected to run into him and never imagined he looked the way he did when he accosted us. Varys was a master of disguise and I fell for that hook line and sinker. He didn't look like how I imagined Varys to look with a bald plump face white with powder and draping himself in rich silks, but instead a man so unassuming he could easily blend into the crowds outside. A stout man, he looked, in a heavy brown robe of roughspun with cracked, mud-caked boots that were falling apart, a face hidden by a cowl and hands drawn up into voluminous sleeves. Stepping before us and lowering his cowl, the Spider revealed a round, scarred face with a dark stubble, smelling of sweat and sour wine strong enough to upset my stomach. He even sounded different, not the effeminate voice I imagined, but instead a growl thin and sharp as a whip. That was the interesting thing about Varys. He not only changed his name and costume, but could change his gait, smell and committed himself to certain quirks. It fit his persona as a master mummer. _And I'm his dragon, dangling from the Spider's strings_.

"Stand aside," Rolly had demanded when he blocked us on the stairs.

The than-stranger smiled. "Black hair is it? I half believed you would be more subtle." He examined me with narrow dark eyes and, while he was grinning, didn't look pleased in the slightest. His voice was quiet, so much so that I strained to hear, and I was standing right before him.

"And who might you be?" I looked him up and down, not having a clue at that moment despite the nagging feeling in the back of my mind.

"A friend."

 _Varys_.

"The Spider," Dalabhar said blandly to everyone's surprise.

Varys looked up at the Summer Islander in astonishment and I couldn't help but chuckle. "And how might you have known that?"

"Few people in King's Landing would have the information to know such a thing. It didn't take much to conclude he would learn what was going on and desire to meet you in person. A eunuch may look different, smell different and have a different way of speaking, but he is still a eunuch. I'm rarely deceived. Those on the run tend to learn things, else you end up like many foolish exiles."

Varys looked hurt but intrigued as he looked Dalabhar up and down. I interjected, "Mayhaps you'll want wine and a seat. I hope that face isn't due to those shoes. I know how it is to have blisters on your feet." I smiled and we headed to a table in the corner of the lodge. It was fortunate the place was crowded so the room was loud and chaotic. "Griffin's my name, and yours is?"

"Barth," Varys smiled broadly though it was an obviously fake one, showing a mouth full of rotten teeth. Once you knew someone was a master of disguise, they ceased being a master and I grew increasingly suspicious of each little gesture. For all his fake identities, it made me wonder if Varys was his actual name or if the Spider was just another persona to destabilise the Westerosi monarchy. "I must say I'm surprised by your unexpected appearance."

"I could say the same about you," I smirked. "Duck, be a good man and bring us some drinks. I've a feeling we may need it. Dalabhar, you may retire upstairs. It might be rude to say, but you do stand out and many are looking over at us. I desire they don't." Grunting, my assistant did as I bid, and many eyes followed the ebony giant. With them both gone, me and Varys were left alone, and I leaned back, trying to act casual though internally I was panicking. "You could say our little venture into King's Landing was unexpected . . . but there was a reason like everything that has been done."

"Like putting yourself in danger?" Varys' voice changed to being grave with a noticeable hiss. "I would say this is dire circumstance. Sneaking out with only a small escort. Rest assured, I have already told your father and he is not happy."

I wasn't surprised. _Fortunately for me, I never really sought his approval_. "Every day I put myself in danger. There are hundreds of ways one can die. Poison, getting stabbed in the back or someone coughing on me. There is no such thing as being safe, _Barth_. I came became I need to. It is risky, of course, but visiting the hive called King's Landing provides certain opportunities."

"And what opportunities may these be to come across the Narrow Sea with only your associates?"

"I am aware of Arya Stark of Winterfell. I know she has escaped the Red Keep from under Cersei Lannister's nose and is out in the city. Don't ask me how I know, but I have come to find her. I can't risk her getting loose and losing a useful hostage when we finally land."

Varys false smile turned upside down. "Many are looking for the girl who's fled the Red Keep. Janos Slynt leads the city watch and Cersei has Commander Vylarr and the red cloaks prowling the streets to aid them. All my little birds are looking for her as well, and much silver is finding its way into the pockets of whoever has information to offer. Mayhaps thankfully for you, Her Grace is not half as competent as she imagines herself to be and will find her to no avail. Especially not after your presence. But you think you can?"

I leaned forward, trying my best to ignore the horrid smell of his breath. "I know I can. You know Daemon the Second Blackfyre? He sailed to Westeros against the wishes of Bittersteel because of his dragon dreams. He claimed to know the future." Varys' face wrinkled and I pushed forward. "The dragon dreams come from those of Targaryen blood, be they red or black. It's something both families share. I learned I suffer from them as well and they've provided me certain opportunities. That is why I'm here and performed all the actions you've no doubt heard of. I can do it, but I need your help. No doubt she is an important tool that can be used with pressuring the Northmen and undermining the Lannister position."

I left the rest unsaid and Varys' expression was an unflinching mask. Having Arya Stark in my procession would be a strategic victory, and having both Stark sisters would reinforce my hand even more. It was unfortunate Sansa was in the Red Keep and carefully watched, and I couldn't delude myself into believing Varys would pull her out. He might be on my side, but Varys was a survivor first and foremost.

"What do you say?"

Barth smiled slowly.

 **...**

Far across the city, the bells began to ring.

I halted before a puddle of what I hoped was only rainwater. Both Rolly and Dalabhar continued ahead a few steps, not knowing I had paused, before turning around to me staring up at the roofs. The hair on the back of my neck stood on edge. "The sept bells?" I wondered aloud, listening to the echoing rumble through King's Landing.

"The sept bell," Duck corrected as he followed my gaze.

"What is it now?" cried a fat woman leaning out the shutters of a house. "Can't they stop that ringing?"

"May the Seven ha'mercy," muttered a withered old man in a leather cap and clothes covered with mud. "Tis the boy king dead now?"

A guardsman in a gold cloak laughed as he leaned against his long spear. "Boys never last long they don't. If so, we'll have an even younger boy. Mayhaps a boar killed this one to."

"No," huffed a fat-bellied trader with a a pair of sagging breasts big as the woman's in the window, only his were covered with a coarse carpet of hair thick as his beard. "Tis the summoning bell it is. One tower tolling. If the king died, they'd ring them all. It's to Baelor's Sept. A summoning."

I only had to share a look with my companions to know they had the same idea. Without wasting breath, we raced up Visenya's Hill to the Great Sept. We weren't the only ones. The entire city followed our example and soon engulfed us, slowing us to a halt and demanding what was going on. Everyone had questions and many more had answers that went anywhere from believable to absurd. The dirt track were narrow and it didn't take long for the smallfolk to turn the Street of the Sister's into a river occasionally broken up by islands of wagons and carts, each one having cut deep ruts into the mud.

Somewhere close, a girl cried out in pain and then I heard a shout of, " _Make way!_ _Make way for my lords of Redwyne!_ " Only to see four guardsmen atop massive horses galloping through the crowd and trampling over any who weren't fast enough to get out the way. The guards wore checked cloaks of blue-and-burgundy and behind them rode two lordlings on a pair of chestnut mares. You could tell they were nobles by the richly embroidered clothes they wore. Both were identical with the same homely square faces speckled with freckles and orange hair. They must have been the Redwyne twins, Horas and Hobber. Their faces were hard, their expressions tight and they carried with them the smug sense of superiority I had seen from passing nobles in King's Landing.

Reaching the peak of Rhaenys' Hill, the bells grew louder, clanging and calling for everyone in the city to converge on one point. The shouting only grew, and everything became increasingly chaotic. People laughed and cursed and pushed. When one man tried to shove past and almost toppled me over, Dalabhar grabbed him by the throat and punched him in the face so hard I was afraid he killed him. People gave us some space after that.

"—the King's Hand, Lord Stark. They are carrying him up to Baelor's Sept!"

"I heard he was dead."

"Soon enough, soon enough. Here, I got a silver coin they lop his head off."

"Past time, the traitor," another man spat.

"Fool! They aren't neither going to lop him. Since when do they knick traitors on the steps of the Great Sept?"

"Well, they don't mean to anoint him no knight. I heard it was Stark killed old King Robert. Slit his throat in the woods, and when they found him, he stood there cold as you please and said it was some old boar did His Grace."

"Ah, that's not true, it was his own brother did him, that Renly, him with his gold antlers."

"Gorged him from throat to belly on his helm he did," cried another.

"You shut your lying mouth, woman. You don't know what you're saying, his lordship's a fine true man."

"It was the other one, that Stannis. Grim man that one. Dark of heart he is. Must have used dark magic to kill His Grace. Desires the crown he does. Him and the Florents. Too ambitious them lot."

By the time we reached the plaza, everyone was packed shoulder to shoulder like sardines. We were trapped in the human current that drove us ever forward. The white marble plaza was little more than a solid mass of people, all yammering at each other and straining to get closer to the raised platform. The only ones who could move freely were the children crawling between people's legs and many carried knives to snatch the unwary purse. The bells rang above, deep and deafening. Where I stood, near the centre of the mass, I felt faint. My chest was hurting from lack of air and it had grown hotter than Volantis. I wanted only to pull out my sword and clear myself some space. I didn't, and instead looked at King Baelor's statue that was swarming with children. One short girl was beginning to climb and wedged herself between the king's feet. Nudging Duck, I pointed in her direction. He nodded and we struggled forward.

There was a shout and a quick glance to the Great Sept brought me the sight of Lord Eddard Stark on the High Septon's pulpit and flanked by two gold cloaks. He was dressed in a rich grey velvet doublet with a white wolf sewn on the front in beads, and a grey wool cloak trimmed with fur. Even from a distance, I saw how thin he was. His long face was drawn with pain and should he not have been being held up by guardsmen on either side, Stark would surely have collapsed. The cast over his leg was grey and rotten.

The High Septon rose his hands high in the air. The leader of the Faith of the Seven and avatar of the gods – the Westerosi pope – was squat, grey with age and the fattest man I had ever seen, which was saying a lot compared to the likes of Illyrio. He wore long white robes patterned with gold and balancing atop his head was an immense crown of crystal that wreathed his head with rainbows whenever he moved.

Clustered around the doors of the sept, in front of the raised marble pulpit, was a knot of knights and high lords wearing every colour known to man. Standing before them all could only be the newly crowned king. _Joffrey Baratheon, the Worst of His Name, King of the Vandals, the Rippers and the Worst Men. Tyrant of the Seven Kingdoms and Destroyer of the Realm._ He stood prominent, surprisingly tall for a twelve-year-old. His raiment was all crimson, silk and satin patterned with prancing stags and roaring lions, a crown of soft gold laid atop his head of curls. He was a monster, a handsome monster, though it would be more accurate to describe him as pretty. He had delicate features, deep green eyes and sneering pouty lips only a fist would love.

Standing beside him was the mother: Queen Cersei Lannister. While he wore crimson, Cersei wore a black gown like she was still mourning for King Robert Baratheon. She couldn't pull that trick on me. Her dress was black silk slashed with crimson, with a veil of black diamonds in her hair. Decorating her bodice were tiny rubies cut into the shape of teardrops so much like the ones Rhaegar had been wearing when Robert killed him. _Wow Cersei, you complete savage._ Just the sheer boldness was worthy of respect. And goddamn, the dowager queen was beautiful. You hear things but seeing is something else, even from a distance. She stood slender and graceful, with golden hair that caught the light, bright emerald eyes and flawless skin. Now that was what a queen should look like.

Protecting them was a line of gold and red cloaks, as well as the kingsguard who were identical white sentinels in polished plate and scales, all except the Hound with his burnt face and wearing the snowy white cloak over dented grey plate. There was Varys gliding among the lords in soft slippers and a patterned damask robe, and near him was a short man with a silvery cape and pointed beard who I wagered was Lord Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger was a man I didn't hate as perhaps I should but then again, he was unknowingly aiding me. Sooner or later, he'd be toast . . . perhaps literally. Then standing in their midst was the young girl who could only be Sansa Stark, dressed in sky-blue silk, her long auburn hair washed and curled and silver bracelets on her wrists. She was smiling prettily and looked pleased with herself.

 _Poor girl doesn't know_.

We pushed closer to the statue but the struggle was like moving a massive boulder. There were many children clinging to Baelor and thankfully only one looked to be Arya freaking Stark. Took her long enough to show herself. I'd been in King's Landing longer than I would ever want and it was most infuriating. The sooner I nab her, the sooner I could return to Pentos with a useful hostage in tow.

The bells ceased to toll and quiet settled across the great plaza. When Lord Eddard opened his mouth to speak, his voice was so thin and weak I couldn't make it out. The crowd than roared for Stark to speak louder and a stout man in elaborate black and gold armour harshly prodded him. "I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King," he said more loudly, his voice just barely managing to carry across the plaza. "And I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men."

"No," the girl whispered. She was bleeding from where her nail had been ripped off and had painted the statue with it.

 _Gotcha_.

The crowd screamed and shouted, filling the air with taunts and obscenities so loud it was deafening. Sansa Stark hid her face with both hands. She looked so young. Both Stark girls looked so young. Their father rose his voice still, straining to he heard, "I betrayed the faith of my king and the truth of my friend, Robert. I swore to defend and protect his children, yet before his blood was cold, I plotted to depose and murder his son and seize the throne for myself. Let the High Septon and Baelor the Beloved and the Seven bear witness to the truth of what I say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, and by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdom and Protector of the Realm!"

He swears before the Seven . . . gods he doesn't believe in. _Lord Eddard you subtle man_.

A stone sailed out the crowd, hitting Stark in the forehead. Only the gold cloaks kept him from falling. Blood ran down his face from the deep gash and more stones followed. The kingsguard stepped in front of the royals, raising their shields to protect them from the hail of projectiles.

The High Septon knelt before the king and his mother. "As we sin, so do we suffer," he intoned in a deep voice so much louder than Lord Stark's. "This man confessed his crimes in the sight of gods and men, here in this holy place." Rainbows danced around his head as he lifted his hands. "The gods are just yet Blessed Baelor taught us that they are also merciful. What shall be done with this traitor, Your Grace?"

A thousand voices were screaming. Some cried for mercy, others justice, some said the Seven should decide, while others demanded Stark be executed as a traitor. Arya only stared at her father; tears on the verge of running down her cheeks. King Joffrey stepped from behind the shields of the kingsguard and looked down at the crowds. "My mother bids me let Lord Eddard take the black, and Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father." He looked at Sansa, a boyish smile playing on his lips. Then he turned back to the crowds and said, "But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. _Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!"_

The crowd roared both offence and approval. People surged and I was pushed further from my target. Duck fought against the tide as Dalabhar smashed one large man in the face with his elbow, whereupon someone leapt atop his back. That someone was thrown to the ground and trampled by the crowd. The High Septon clutched the king's cape and Varys rushed over waving his arms. Even the queen looked panicked, saying something to her son but Joffrey shook his head with a giddy smile on his face. Littlefinger looked content. Lord and knights stepped aside as the King's Justice stepped forward, tall and fleshless like a skeleton in mail. Sansa screamed and fell to her knees, sobbing hysterically.

Just as I was about to grab Arya, she threw herself from between the marble legs and drew Needle. She landed atop a man in a butcher's apron, knocking them both to the ground. Before she could do anything stupid, I threw myself forward, going straight into her and knocking the girl over as soon as she found her feet. Bodies closed in around us, stumbling and pushing, trampling each other. Arya slashed frantically with Needle and I was slammed into the statue, groaning in pain as the air was knocked out of my lungs.

" _You!_ " I shouted, anger flaring as I drew my sword. The girl saw me and attempted to flee, squirming between the legs of the man before her. Duck saw me pointing and tried to shove, but the men before him were a stalwart wall. Arya wasn't looking and slammed into a woman and that gave us much needed time. Dalabhar, the good man he was, bulldozed his way through the crowd and yanked her by the hair. Arya screamed in pain and the crowds turned to us, making a move against the Summer Islander. Ser Duck pulled out his sword and warded them away, screaming, "Get back. _Get back!"_ Arya, too, had her sword out and tried to slash my assistant. The blade sliced through the outer layer of his garb but not the steel underneath. The little girl cried and struggled but was restrained by his grip. A swing of a meaty hand sent Needle flying from her grip.

Then there was silence.

On the stand, Ser Ilyn Payne was having difficulty drawing the two-handed greatsword from the scabbard on his back. _You don't put scabbards on your back, you twit_ , I thought disapprovingly. Despite calls from Rolly to leave, I couldn't help but stare at the pulpit. Ser Ilyn needed aid and had to lean forward for someone else to draw it, which was slightly comedic for such a dark scene. When that was done, Joffrey sniggered and the headsman lifted the blade above his head. Sunlight seemed to ripple and dance down the dark metal, glinting off an edge sharper than anything in the world. I turned to Arya who stopped resisting to stare where I'd been staring. Tears streamed down her face.

" _Shield her! Don't let her look!_ " I growled and Dalabhar did so, wrenching Arya off the ground and pressing her face to his chest, holding her as easy as a doll.

"I . . . I . . . I," Arya sobbed.

Then there was the noise, dim and far away. It was a soft sigh, and everyone let out a breath at once. I glimpsed a man with greasy hair, a patched and musty black cloak that covered twisted shoulders. He squinted at me. I frowned, raising my sword slightly, then he backed away, his onyx eyes not leaving mine. Duck turned to me, eyes pleading, and I gave a shallow nod. Rolly picked up Needle, examining the blade approvingly before sheathing it on his belt.

"We are done here. Girl, you are coming with us and you'll be keeping your mouth shut." She was about to open her mouth, but I silenced her, "Shut it, else you risk everything. Say anything and we'll hand you over to Joffrey and trust me, he'll be mad."

As the plaza began to empty, we swiftly took our exit and practically dragged the girl to a nearby alley. She didn't resist, only look numb with what happened. "W-who, who are you?"

"People who know who you truly are," was my brusque response. Her mouth widened and she looked ready to dart away, but Dalabhar's hand restrained Arya. She couldn't have gotten away if she tried. "We're here to help."

"Help?" She barely got the words out.

I forced a smile to put her at ease. It didn't work. "Come with us without a struggle and we can tell you everything and perhaps get some food down your throat. You look hungry. But first . . ." I pulled out a knife and Arya kicked, wrenching her head from side to side. After a few cuts, dark-brown hair littered the ground.

Shortly afterwards, we were back at the lodge. As soon as we shut and bolted the door behind us, Duck began to pack. We needed to flee King's Landing as soon as possible and find a ship. No doubt father wanted me back. While I held no delusions about him being furious I disappeared, the expression would be priceless when I stride in and say, "Happy to be back, father. Oh, and what do we have here, I kidnapped a Stark girl."

As Arya Stark stood in the corner of the room, I smiled warmly at her, trying to be as comforting as I could in such a situation. Granted, my father was never beheaded before me, in this life or the one before, so I couldn't sit beside her and say I understood what she was going through. "There's a bowl there. Clean yourself up. After running around King's Landing, you look a beggar and half a dead one at that." But she didn't say anything, nor look up from where she was. Tears were still running down her face and her bony form was shuddering. I was too much in a hurry to comfort her. The longer we stayed in King's Landing, the more likely we were to be revealed. "Dry your tears. With your hair cut, the gold cloaks will no longer be after you. They are looking for a girl. And be thankful we're returning you to your brother."

She looked up and me and wiped her face with the back of her hand. "My brother?"

"Robb Stark unless I'm mistaken." _The future King in the North, so that will make you a princess in the near future_. _Seems to be a thing for dragons to kidnap princesses and Starks_. "I plan to return you to him."

"You will?" She looked so hopeful and boy was it heart-breaking.

"In the future I will," I allowed. No point lying after all. "We'll be taking a ship and heading to Pentos first. We can't simply go to him. I hope you understand."

Any relief she felt left as soon as it came. "Oh."

Duck approached, pulling out the sword called Needle and offered it to her. Arya broke off into a relieved smile and snatched it from Rolly's rough hands. "Needle!" she squealed, hugging the blade to her person. I wagered she would have kissed it if not for the mud and our very presence.

"You dropped it," Duck explained, scratching the back of his head. "I apologise for hurting you, milady."

"Likewise," the Summer Islander said with a slight bow of his head.

Arya Stark turned to me, obviously knowing I was the leader of our little group. She didn't look trusting, but why should she? "You're going to help me? When are we leaving?"

"As soon as possible," I informed her. "Best wash yourself and get something to eat first. You look like you haven't eaten at all. How about some lemon cakes?"

* * *

A/N: Funnily enough, NeedingOfLifeGoalDude commented about the GC rescuing Arya and I had planned something along those lines happening for a while. Her going with Griff and the gang instead of Yoren will have some notable effects on Westeros. I know the Varys scene was short, but their future interactions will be _much_ more detailed because they won't be in disguise and can speak much more freely. I hoped you enjoyed this chapter and once again I'd like to thank those who've reviewed, followed and favourited. It means a lot.

Comments:

VladImpaler: I do plan a few interactions between Arya and Daenerys throughout the story. You are right with Arya being a nosy child and I can certainly see her being excited seeing the dragons. Though I will say that Robb won't be informed of Arya's abduction until the Golden Company makes their move against Westeros. They can't afford to let Westeros know until all sides are bloodied.

NeedingOfLifeGoalDude: The elitism of the noble classes will play a part in the story, that I can promise. I don't plan for any interlude chapters in Westeros for a while. What we'll know will come from reports of what's going on and too many interludes would slow the fic down too much. Due to massive differences in numbers, the GC would need to use a variety of strategies to even the odds in Westeros, as there are very much on the quality end of the spectrum, so we might see a few of what you suggested.

javi30: It isn't the most obvious, but her absence will affect Westeros. She won't be with Gendry, Hot Pie or Lommy. Nor would she have released Rorge, Biter and Jaqen H'ghar into the Riverlands, so the former two won't pillage the Riverlands with the Brave Companions and participate in the fall of Harrenhal to Roose.

Najex: Yoren was briefly mentioned as being the man in the black cloak. He saved Arya in canon but I don't think he would have if it meant being caught in a fight, especially one where he's outnumbered 3-1. He saw she was captured and instead of fighting them, backed away upon making contact with Aegon. The next chapter will feature Daenerys' reaction once Aegon returns to the manse. Dany may dislike the Starks but it's out of character for her to harm children. It'll be an interesting scenario with Arya being a hostage similar to Sansa (though in a better position).

SoundOfRain: Thanks. I do like characters being proactive and want them to suffer and get reprimanded for their actions, depending on what they. I agree in that the journey is the thing that counts. Arya won't be killing the Night King because in the books there is no Night King, and nor do I plan to write a chosen one story. I wish you the best best as well.


	25. Chapter 21: Reunion

**Catalyst**

 **Chapter 21: Reunion**

* * *

Faint and far away, the lighthouse of Pentos burned on the horizon, an orange star bright against the dark purple sky.

"We're finally back," grinned Duck, leaning out the galley where a large wave collided against the painted hull and splashed his face. The knight wiped away the seawater, cursing colourfully as he did so. "We've been away longer than expected. Hopefully they don't think we're dead."

I guffawed. "I'm almost scared to return, you know."

Behind us the captain was shouting orders at his crew. Sailors scrambled up and down the masts and moved along the rigging, rearranging the striped sails of the vessel. Beneath our feet, oarsmen heaved and strained with the slender oars as the _Silken Dream_ slowed down to pass through the channel to the Bay of Pentos whose bountiful reef was devoid of fishing vessels.

"Scared? Why's that? Is it your father or the girl you mean to marry?"

"Them to," I chuckled and threw a half eaten apple into the sea. "Would it be silly to say Lemore most of all? We did leave without telling anyone."

Duck playfully punched my shoulder. "It's nothing to worry yourself over, lad. Thanks to you, the Company's got a valuable hostage and if they're angry, well, it just proves they're fools. What we achieved was worthy of song. They'll be singing of our deeds like they do with Ser Barristan the Bold saving King Aerys from Duskendale. We'll be heroes!"

 _Mayhaps Barristan should have failed that quest - it might have turned out better for Westeros. Though if Rhaegar still acted like he did . . ._ "You sound confident, Ser Duck. You think Dany will be impressed or—"

Rolly snorted. "Or what? She'll be impressed I tell you. If she's not, the Seven may reserve me a spot in hell to freeze for all time."

"You sound confident and no doubt our lovely septa would smack you over the head with a spoon if she heard that."

"She would, wouldn't she? I'm confident your Dany will be impressed. She's a sweet girl and, like many, loves silks, songs and chivalry with tall gallant princes with handsome faces. Nor would she feel worried you stole yourself another."

 _You don't know her at all_. From what I remembered, Daenerys had a thing for men with bad hair and aggression bordering on the psychopathic. I was closer to Prince Quentyn Martell but with comelier features and much better timing. "What do you mean another? Wait, do you mean _her_?"

"Here's a bit of advice, women are intimidated by other women. Though in this case, the one with us is all skin and bones and a child besides. Your betrothed is a woman who can turn heads in any court so she has no reason to be worried. Arry is not one of them pretty village girls comely lordlings steal away to marry instead of the hunchbacked widow."

"Lordlings marrying village girls? Is that really a thing?"

"In the dreams of young girls I imagine. They're fanciful stories like Spotted Pate the Pigboy. That goodhearted lad bests cruel knights, tyrannical lords and corrupt septons. The story ends all well for Spotted Pate, usually sitting in a high lord's seat or bedding some knight's daughter. I'd never encountered one of those stories happening in real life though."

 _Dunk the Lunk?_ I smiled thinly. "Do you see yourself as him?"

"Me? Of course not. I tried once when my father gave me my sword and I beat Lorent Caswell with it. He's lord of Bitterbridge now." Duck spat at the deck. "I wonder if he's going to fight against us. Seven I hope so. I'll break the rest of his lordships ribs."

"That or he may shit himself once he lays eyes upon you."

Rolly laughed and I turned to Arya who was leaning out the side to stare into the ink-black waters. Her hair was short and instead of the soiled garbs of a Hand's daughter, the girl was dressed in boy's leather. Though she had kept quiet in King's Landing, as soon as we boarded the _Silken Dream_ , Stark asked a barrage of questions. Near all of which were about returning to Westeros and her brother. I did my best to emulate politicians and avoid straight answers but upon being asked why I hadn't saved Sansa, I was honest and explained why I didn't. Arya wasn't happy but even a girl as young as her knew how next to impossible it would be. Even if I wanted to – and I most certainly did – I couldn't just go sneaking through passages and smuggle Sansa out. Going into King's Landing was risky but that was nothing compared to the Red Keep and the results would certainly end with me being tortured. I did have plans to save Sansa during the Purple Wedding by capturing Baelish's ship but until then she was untouchable. Thankfully Arya had kept busy. Some men shunned her while others taught her their trades. Arya learnt to tie ropes, study stars and predict future weather. It would be wrong to say I didn't learn a few things to.

"Tell me, Duck, are you looking forward to be back?"

"Aye. More than you could imagine. I'm keen to see Doreah again."

"You seem quite taken with her. I was honestly surprised you two became a thing."

"How can one not love her? She's pretty and got a gentle heart. Got a sweet arse besides."

"You have my support. Once the Iron Throne belongs to Her Grace, you can have any boon you desire. I know Daenerys offered you and Doreah a stout holdfast outside King's Landing, but I do think you deserve something more than just being a landed knight."

"I wouldn't deny a chance to become a lordly lord. I never imagined I'd have the chance and when I was a boy, I only ever desired to be a ser. There was an old one who could always be found drinking at the Hog's Head. He spent his days telling everyone stories of his time as a hedge knight. I didn't care whether he slept under hedgerows or in the halls of Highgarden. I listened to every word he said from the war on the Stepstones to fighting some lords war or when he hunted down bandits and wild wolves for a few coppers a head. I wanted that life so much. So much more than being a blacksmith or man-at-arms."

I bumped his shoulder. "When you were listening to him I supposed you never imagined you'd have broken Lorent's ribs and find yourself in the service of an exiled prince."

"Never imagined it," Rolly laughed. "I suppose this is only the beginning and our futures are going to be much more interesting."

"I'm certain it will," I chuckled and stretched, noticing Duck's eyes upon my burnt hand. "Its fine, Duck. The bandages are a little dirty, that's all."

"I'm just wondering how you got hurt in the first place. It wasn't like you stuck your hand in the pyre."

 _I didn't_. That was the strange thing. It was only when I attempted to pull Daenerys back that my hand got burnt. _Seemed like something didn't want me to interfere._ The fact Dany couldn't properly remember the details further supported my theory. _If there's something out there . . ._ I was concerned but instead of showing that, I only smiled. "Nothing to worry about. I stood too close and I'll hear no more of it."

Despite being night, the streets were chaotic when we finally climbed off the ship. Pentos was one of the world's great ports; its great sheltered harbour a riot of colours and smells. Lining the waterfront were foul winesinks, cheap brothels, gloomy warehouses, buzzing gambling dens and temples of gods both great and small. Mingling in the crowds were cutpurses and colourfully striped bravos, hedge wizards selling potions to cure any disease, musicians dressed like peacocks, insurers and moneychangers and so many more. Glowing in windows and hanging from lines above the streets were paper lanterns coating Pentos with pretty colours. We didn't take a mount or palanquin as was custom, instead walked to Illyrio's manse. It wasn't the fastest way but after being cooped upon on a ship for the last few days, I felt the need to stretch my legs. Arya, being half asleep, clung to Duck's back.

Reaching the gates of Illyrio's manse, the plump Unsullied opened the front gates without a word. Rolly carried a now sleeping Arya to a spare room and I asked the captain to have a eunuch watch her. Because everyone was asleep and not want to be woken up, I headed straight to my chambers, collapsed on the bed and dreamt of ghostly apparitions pacing within an icy mist. Regaining consciousness, I found myself face down on the mattress, drowning in a goose-down feather bed with Larra shaking me awake. Having a pretty blonde wasn't the worst thing to wake up to in the morning.

"Master Aegon," she said, "your bath awaits. It is midday; you slept all morning and I fear the bath is getting cold. Your father expects you at the table within the hour."

"Midday?" I sat up, rubbing my eyes and then the dribble on my chin. Only then did I realise I was still wearing travel stained leather and boots caked in mud. _I should apologise to whoever cleans this bed._ "A bath you say, but first I need some water. My throat is dry." Larra handed me a cup and I chugged it down like I was on a binge and almost coughed it back up again. "Lead the way. We must not keep father dearest waiting."

After bathing, garbing myself in a fresh silken doublet and taking a piss in the chamber pot, I headed down to lunch and found father reclining on a padded chair with a sickening feast before him. I took a seat opposite, placed a napkin on my lap and acted like nothing was unusual while avoiding father glaring at me with narrowed eyes. I smiled thinly at his stare and tucked right in.

"Welcome. Please come and take a seat after leaving without so much as a word." Illyrio Mopatis' voice carried an edge like glass and was enough for the two servants to leave the room. Perceptive on their part. "It seems you have much to say for yourself."

 _I'm sure I do, father_.

I sat up, ran a hand through my hair but before I could say anything, Illyrio slammed a meaty hand against the table with a loud _thump_. My reaction was lazy, however. Despite having slept in for most of the day, I still felt groggy; no thanks to keeping watch over Arya throughout the voyage should some sailors decide raping a nine-year-old girl was a good idea. I expected Illyrio to be mad, but this was the first time I'd ever seen him angry. He was usually jolly and never really rose his voice except to laugh. Now he was fuming. The magister forced himself up, leaning against the table and growled, "You left without my permission and put yourself and all our plans in danger, not to mention risk being discovered, and for what? A mere girl? Are you delusional? _Are you such a fool to take leave of your wits_!"

My mouth opened but no words came out. Despite knowing about my so-called dragon dreams, Illyrio would never accept my actions. Our relations were on thin ice even before this. I could hear the cracking and if the wrong words were said, the ice would surely break. _I can't back down, no matter how much you desire it_. Not only was Arya too useful a hostage to hang over Robb Stark's head, she also served as a possible claimant for Winterfell. What I'd done was for everyone's good. "I did what I had to do. If you are not aware, that girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell, the daughter of late Lord Eddard and the sister of his heir, the current Lord of Winterfell."

"I know who the girl is. I am no fool. Varys told me everything. You think he wouldn't? He was my closest friend, the partner I grew up with and worked alongside since we were striplings. He told me as soon as soon as you appeared in King's Landing."

"So he would have told you how important the Stark girl is. I only hope you realise that."

Illyrio didn't like those words and his face tightened. "I care not for the girl. You think I give a passing concern over some Andal lord's daughter? What you did was go against everything you should know. You sneaked out my manse, sailed across the Narrow Sea with what? A blacksmith-turned-knight? An exiled prince? It was only luck you managed to survive. I had my agents scouring the world for you. I sent men into Pentos believing you had gone there and later because I feared you suffered a similar fate to Viserys. Men travelled as far as Braavos and Volantis believing you were abducted. That witch of yours was even looking through her glass candle. I was beginning to believe you were dead."

 _Lyra managed to get the glass candle to work?_ That was good to know. It would give our forces a deceive edge when it came to military intelligence, not to mention subtly influence certain characters with visions. I believed Quaithe, Euron and Marwyn had glass candles too and having our own could counteract their abilities.

But father was not done. "Lemore was praying to the Seven and was beside herself. If word reached Connington, I'm certain he would have ridden north as fast as possible. Tis only fortunate I didn't disclose it to anyone else thanks to Blackheart's urging."

"And Daenerys?"

"Daenerys? She locked herself in her room upon you disappearing. She refused to eat and spent her days in the company of those dragons." Not wanting to stand any more, Illyrio fell back into the giant chair that groaned from the impact. He was heaving so hard I was afraid he was about to suffer a heart attack. I was about to stand up and call for aid when he looked up with a face painted with melancholy and said, "You left and you didn't say anything. Why?"

Gently putting my utensils down, I sat up in a more dignified position and took a deep breath. "I could have. I could have told you about the dreams I had. Ask Duck and Dalabhar and they'll tell you what I said to them and what would later happen. I'm sure I could have told you and gotten you to agree with stealing Arya Stark. You have the resources to collapse a kingdom so how hard can be to find a child? Quite hard actually. You would never have allowed me to go and instead would have sent others. The chances this could fail was not a risk I was willing to take. Arya Stark would have run between your fingers like water and never be found again. Going to King's Landing myself was the only way we had to get ourselves a useful hostage for when we finally invade. Punish me if you want. I did go behind your back. I was the one who sneaked sweetsleep into the cups of the sentries so they couldn't stop us. But do not punish my companions. It's not their fault. They urged against it, said I shouldn't, but I pulled rank and ordered they come with. If anyone should be reprimanded, it should solely be me."

If Illyrio wanted to say something, he was speechless now. He slumped back into his chair and stared at his plate. "You sound like your mother."

"My mother?"

"Serra Blackfyre. She was a determined soul and proud as only a dragon could be. She wanted you as king of Westeros, _the king_ , and would surely have slapped you herself if she saw you offer yourself as a mere consort. I found her in Lys, performing at the Perfumed Garden. I think one of her descendants ruling the Seven Kingdoms was the only thing that kept her going; that being a slave was worth it if it meant House Blackfyre would one day sit the Iron Throne. Bound and sold and forced to serve, but a dragon still." Illyrio smiled softly, surprisingly genuine and full of affection. "I brought Serra for her beauty but I grew to love her strength. In many ways you remain me of her. You have my features and wits in abundance and clearly have her colours, but it is her drive I can see in you. Beneath the surface you have her fire that can be seen to erupt on occasion. At least something has been left of her in this world."

This was perhaps the first time Illyrio spoke of my mother in this world. I never really asked, nor did I particularly care. I'd been too busy preparing for the future so a past that wasn't really mine never really mattered. "There might be," I conceded, taking a sip of water and swishing it around my mouth. "Father, I understand you are mad. I understand why everyone is, and I apologise for not telling you. I was rash—"

"Very rash. You could have died and everything we have worked towards would have been destroyed like that."

"All men die. The plan you have worked all these years towards is sending me into Westeros with an army to dethrone a dynasty that command the obedience of a whole continent. It would be wrong of me to not face what most other men will when the time comes. What kind of leader would I be if I'm unwilling to risk my life but willing to send others to their deaths? Not the kind the Golden Company will respect, I ensure you."

"That is why we've been bringing down the Baratheon dynasty," Illyrio said coldly. "We've been building up our strength and the Westerosi have been destroying theirs. It will only get worse for them. Blackheart has already sent sellswords and agents to all sides of the conflict to provide us with much needed information as well as undermine their alliances be it through force or guile. The Westerosi look down on spies and infiltration and that has only blinded them. Cloak and dagger, that's how we're going to play until the odds are stacked heavily in our favour. I hoped you wouldn't have risked yourself with such tactics. I do not care how they think of you if it means you live. You dying valiantly on the battlefield with the respect of the men doesn't achieve victory and will bring an end to the line of your mother and my own."

"But me winning with the respect of the men and those I conquer will make ruling easier," was my calm response. "My life is at risk just by being a Blackfyre, more so when we're actually making a move against Westeros." _There is always danger. Some local lord may decide to remove me so he become's Daenerys' consort and the future father of a dragon riding king, so he stabs me in the back or offers a poisoned chalice_. "Risky moves tend to produce more attractive results. Westeros is much more militant than the Free Cities and much respect is given to those who prove themselves in military matters, not so much in economics. Daemon the Black Dragon got much support just by being a swordsman and much was told of his gallantry, though less is spoken about him being a capable bureaucrat and statesman. I say I should be his second coming. Daring and young and dangerous, the perfect archetype to attract support and show myself as being worthy of the Blackfyre name. After all, power is a shadow on the wall."

Father emptied his wine cup but he said nothing.

 **...**

Finishing 'breakfast,' I approached Daenerys' apartments and rattled my fist against the door. I didn't have to wait long and Irri greeted me with her dark almond eyes widening in surprise. Politely thanking her and pushing past, I was greeted with Azantys charging straight towards me. His graceless limbs slid across the marble floor and he attempted to climb up my leg. Before he could shred my trousers in the attempt, I lifted him up where he jumped to his favourite spot on my shoulders. I couldn't help but grimace, however. His claws were sharp and dug deep into my skin. Azantys wasn't a gentle dragon.

Daenerys was reclining on a padded window seat, sandwiched between Jhiqui and Septa Lemore. Feet bare, the exiled princess was dressed in a simple dress of linen and lambswool with a colourful scarf wrapped around her head. Before them was a handsome table laid out with a gilded bowl piled high with fruit, a sewing kit with half-finished embroidery, and an ivory and onyx chessboard. Playing by her feet were three dragons. Dany's large violet eyes widened. "Egg?"

I strode in smiling but the uneasy stares made me stop. "Your Grace, Lady Septa, handmaidens."

Lemore slowly put down her needlework and stood up. In no way did she look pleased. "It seems you have come to grace us with your presence." Her voice was flat and, like Illyrio's, carried an edge as sharp and cold as ice. "You disappeared, having vanished most unexpectedly."

 _Crap_. It was then I realised everyone's heavy gazes staring into my soul, Lemores and Daenerys' being the most intense. "If I take a seat, I'll—"

The septa didn't allow me to finish before wrapping her arms tight around me, not caring in the slightest about the dragon leaning over to sniff her hair. Lemore stepped back, eyes red and teary. "Why did you go? Everyone's been deathly worried. You vanished like a ghost."

"I should explain myself." Placing Azantys back on the floor I forced a smile, but none returned it. "I'm assuming you know where I went by now. I took a ship to King's Landing—"

" _King's Landing!_ " Lemore yelled. "Are you speaking truly or is this a jest? If so, it is not a funny one and if you are being truthful, have you taken leave of your senses? What foolishness notion went into your head? What judgement!"

"D-dragon dream." I glimpsed at Daenerys who hadn't risen from her seat and was no longer looking at me, instead offering a hand to Rhaellon and letting the black dragon playfully nip at her. "A similar dream as Daenys the Dreamer, the same Daenerys had before hatching the dragons in the pyre. The same many Targaryen experience. I _needed_ to go to King's Landing."

"You rash, foolish boy." Lemore stepped back and covered her face with her hands. "Why would you travel to where the Baratheons rule with an iron fist? Are you even aware of the dangers you were in? You could have been discovered!"

"It is known," said Jhiqui which Irri followed up with, "It is known."

I frowned despite myself. _I am not a child and you are not my mother, no matter how much you see yourself as such_. "Yes, septa. I was aware of the dangers. But I'm not the foolish boy you are presenting me as. I knew of the risks and took them into account. If you don't remember, you and Jon raised me to be king so what leader would I be if I didn't take advantage of a situation when it presented itself. What leader would I be if I stood in the background and let others do everything for me? Were you teaching me to be a ruler or merely a puppet to bend to the will of those around me and destined to sit on my arse all my life?"

Septa Lemore was taken aback.

Clearly I had never spoken to her that way before and it made me regret those words as soon as they left my mouth. I sighed, pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath to calm myself before continuing more slowly. "I'm sorry for the coarse words, septa. That was unbecoming of me. I went to abduct Arya Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter and the sister of his heir. Now, lady septa, would you have made me stand to the side and risk letting her go free or would you rather have a useful asset disappear? Would you let a little girl fall into the hands of some evil characters or survive on her own with no one to protect her?"

Colour slowly returned to Lemore's face but instead of thinking about what I'd just said, instead replied with, "I would be more mindful of your tongue, Aegon. You will not speak to your elder like that."

My hands formed a fist. Before it could become a shouting match, Daenerys rose her voice, "Lady Lemore, you are excused. Irri, Jhiqui, you both as well. I desire to be alone with my betrothed and pray, close the door on your way out." When Lemore was about to say something, no doubt to object, Daenerys whispered something into the septa's ear. The Dornishwoman relaxed her shoulders and bid the others follow her. Daenerys kissed Lemore on the cheek, softly thanking her. When the door closed behind them, Daenerys turned to me, eyes cold as a winter storm and just as beautiful.

 _Great, the nun lectured me and now it's the dragon queen_. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry? You're sorry?" Her violet eyes bore into mine. "You think you can just stride back in like nothing happened? You vanished. For weeks you had vanished. I . . . I thought you were dead." Her voice was toneless, devoid of all affection and emotion. She took a few steps forward until my vision was only Daenerys.

I bit my lip. "I meant to . . . I understand—"

"No, you don't understand. Viserys disappeared from the manse and he died, bleeding out into the streets by Ser Jorah's blade. Ser Willam Darry who was my protector is also dead. I feared something happened to you. Upon hearing you had disappeared with Duck and Dalabhar, I thought you had only gone to visit the city or were performing one of them queer projects you do. I told myself nothing was the matter, that nothing was wrong. Only you didn't return. Not that day nor the one after. Every night I grew more concerned."

Unable to help it, I averted my eyes. It was known none would be happy with me vanishing suddenly and returning after who knows how long, but it wasn't something I really thought about. If I had any concerns, they were brushed aside because necessity. _I'm still in the right. They're just overreacting_. Still, a part of me was angry they weren't thanking me for what I'd done. It was I who risked my life, not them. They had no right to be mad at the end of the day.

"Look, I said I'm—"

"Sorry? Is that what you give me – an apology – after spending days worrying about you, after nights of being unable to sleep?" She barked a laugh that carried no warmth, only bitterness. "Magister Illyrio asked me questions – endless questions: 'Where did he go? When was the last time you saw him? Did he say anything?' On and on he spoke, and I couldn't answer a single one. I didn't know where you'd gone to. You didn't tell me, nor did you leave a note. I wasn't worthy enough, apparently."

I grit my teeth. "You may not be aware, but somethings need to be kept secret. Even from you, Dany. I couldn't risk anyone finding out."

"Don't you dare call me that. You have lost that right ever since you went behind my back. I am the queen, _your queen_. You proclaimed you are mine, that you are loyal and true, yet you go behind my back. You don't even apologise for _that_. You just make excuses."

I cursed internally before hissing, "Arya Stark—"

"I care not for this Arya Stark. What I care about is you," she mirrored my tone perfectly, though hers was at the cusp of breaking. "What I care about is you going behind my back and . . . what if Varys betrayed you? Connington said the Spider was never to be trusted. What if Duck or Dalabhar had betrayed you for a lordship or a purse of gold? If the Lannisters knew, they would throw you into the dungeons and have you killed. What would I have done then? Did you ever think about that or were you so blinded by your ambitions you forgot about everyone around you? You act like we are equals but it is clear you consider me secondary; that you are quick to dismiss and mislead people for whatever foolish scheme you have planned at the moment. How is that a sign of trust if you do that with abandon?"

I couldn't help but I avoid her gaze. My mind was blank. She had laid down a barrage of accusations, yet I couldn't find an answer to a single one. How could I answer without upsetting her more?

I must had taken longer than Daenerys wanted because she added, "I deserve to know." Once more I gazed into her eyes and physically felt her fury and refused to bend before it. Yet, beneath all the anger, I could feel the pain shining through. It wasn't the anger I'd been worried about, but all the hurt she felt. Daenerys wasn't a girl who felt much in the way of happiness. She was sad more often than not. One who lost everything and had only recently gained something she could say was hers. Me leaving and possibly dying would destroy that dream and any chance to gain it.

"I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to hurt anybody." I move to cup her cheek but Daenerys shied away. I wanted to make her understand but I didn't know how without making her push away further. "Daenerys, I don't know how to explain. I just don't. I never thought you would react this way because, frankly, I never thought of how you'd react. I never thought you would feel upset for me just disappearing, nor did I believe it would hurt you."

"I am hurt. Not only me, but others. Your father, Septa Lemore and Haldon. Your problem is that you don't think. You thought you could just return like nothing happened, that'd we'd simply smile and congratulate you—"

She was close to tears and all I wanted to do was hug her and whisper sweet promises saying I would never do that again. But I couldn't afford to make assurances I was certain to break. Neither of us were. We were destined to be politicians and military leaders and about to fight a war against an entire continent. Despite how she acted and spoke, seeing her almost cry remained me how young she truly was. _Fourteen. She is only fourteen. She shouldn't be doing this. She should be in the care of a loving family who adore her, not a figurehead for a conquest_. "How many times must I say I am sorry? I apologised, not once, but several times." _Is that enough or must I flagellate myself as penitence?_

"You apologised, Aegon, yes, but that is not enough. Words mean little and less if you break them. You understand why I'm angry now? You couldn't trust me then you left so I was in the manse _alone_ with no one to protect me should anything happen. You promised to keep me safe. With your most esteemed abilities and wisdom you failed to imagine a possibility you would fail."

"That is not true. You have . . ." Who did she have? Connington was in the Disputed Lands. Ser Jorah was dead, having either assassinated Viserys himself or was the fall guy with the assassination being orchestrated by Illyrio and company.

"You." She gave a humourless smile. "I have _you_. You are my only true supporter and everyone else follows their black dragon. I see how they look at you while those same people question whether they should listen to me. I've four handmaidens and three hatchlings while you have an army and several cities at your back and call."

 _Now here is the core of the issue, it seems to me_. "What about Connington?"

"The man who raised you since you were a bean? You think I'm naïve enough to delude myself into believing he would side with me over you? The girl he had left to fend for herself over the boy he came to see as his own son?"

"You don't know that," I said darkly.

"Perhaps you don't." She was about to turn around but I didn't let her. Without thinking, my hand lunged forward to grab her wrist. I didn't pull her to me, instead step forward and Daenerys was soon in my arms, only halting my advance with a delicate hand pressed against my chest. Her porcelain skin was warm, silk to the touch, and Dany smelled of rosewater and lilac.

"Don't run away from me."

"When why did you run from me?" asked Daenerys softly. She tried to push me with a light touch to break my hold but I held on, restraining her in a gentle vice. She looked up at me, purple eyes now blazing. "You left me. Abandoned me. Now you come back and expect me to—"

I silenced her words with a kiss. She tensed, grew rigid, but a moment later she returned the kiss and submitted fully. I couldn't help but allow myself a little smirk and gently embraced the silver dragon, wrapping her in a tight hug. She gasped slightly, breaking for breath, and I could see the beginning of a spark in her pretty eyes, and pretty they were. Much was said about Targaryen beauty but much more was said about their eyes. One could look at all the poets' loving descriptions of the many Targaryen women. Soft and violet, hers were eyes you could drown in.

Slowly, she closed her eyes and pursed her lips, raising her mouth to mine. This was less abrupt, more cautious. Yet I couldn't take my eyes off the beauty before me and met her kiss but stayed fixed on her face. One hand clutched my shoulder while the other rose to cup my cheek, soft fingers tracing a hairless chin. It was an intimate scene, though awkward and clumsy as well. The kiss began stilted with neither of us knowing what to do, and began as a few cursory dry pecks before growing confident. Her mouth was soft and gentle, and her taste was honey and fruit. _I should have done this sooner. I should have kissed you when we met. I should have kissed you every day and every night. You were made to be kissed_. When our lips finally separated, I smiled and pressed my forehead against hers. "I never abandoned you. I merely left to bring you a gift. Another gift for my queen."

"A gift that is worth your life?"

"If it benefits us during the war, then yes, it is worth my life."

"You are being foolish."

"No, I'm not." Daenerys opened her eyes and met mine staring back. Her breathing increased, hot, heavy and flustered. Beneath her clothes I could feel the frantic rhythm of her heart and, despite knowing we shouldn't, I yearned to free ourselves of them. "A hostage is useful. If it saves lives and aids us in taking down the usurpers, we need to take it."

"And while you're playing hero, I'm left here, then you come striding back with tales of glory."

"Is that jealousy I hear?"

She smiled despite herself. "Mayhaps."

"You know, Daenerys," I said after a moment. "Some time in the future, when you are riding Rhaellon and sit the Iron Throne, you'll be the one the histories talk about. The maesters and future Targaryens will be looking at you like they look at Jaehaerys and the Conqueror. They'll talk about Queen Daenerys the Just; how the smallfolk prospered and love you."

"You sound so sure," said the girl who didn't sound so sure.

"Because I know you'll be a great queen. But that is the future and what I've done is the past. Mayhaps you'll want to begin the present by meeting one of the nobles of Westeros? Though I should warn you, this one's got a fierce bite. The Starks can be quite feral, you know. Come, I'll take you to her."

"You know, Egg, I have still not forgiven you."

"Not yet."

 **...**

Because Arya was of noble birth, it was only right, by Westerosi tradition, that a septa take charge of her. It was Lemore who'd been given that duty and now Arya stood in the centre of the room, out of her soiled leathers and into a dress of blue linen and doe-skin sandals worthy of a wealthy merchant's daughter. Even her hair had been neatened from the crude impromptu haircut which essentially was me hacking away with a knife. When she initially saw it, Lemore hadn't been impressed with my handiwork and lectured me so adamantly that Dalabhar snickered. That only turned her fury to the seven-foot-tall Summer Islander made of nothing but muscle and somehow made him shy away. Dalabhar, a man who wouldn't blink at a Dothraki horde charging straight towards him, got chastened by a septa armed with nothing but a scowl. Arya was giving me that very same death stare, though it vanished upon seeing the dragon perched atop my shoulder.

I grinned and gave Azantys a little pat on the head. He chirped happily before blowing smoke into my face. _Blasted dragon_. Say what you want about dragons being the medieval equivalent of attack aircraft (or the false equivalent of nukes), but as hatchlings they are positively adorable.

"Is that . . ."

"A dragon," Dany grinned, entering with the other three all intrigued with the new face. Though whether they saw Arya as a playmate or food, I couldn't say. "Four of them. These are only hatchlings."

"Dragons?" Arya stepped closer, approaching like a curious puppy who'd just seen a human for the first time. "I-I thought they were all dead. Maester Luwin said so. He said they died during the reign of Aegon the Third, hundreds and hundreds of years ago."

"They were. Until recently." Dany smiled gracefully. "Where are my manners. You are a guest here and not a prisoner – please don't think of yourself as such. I am Princess Daenerys Targaryen, and I welcome you to the Free City of Pentos. I see you have already met Septa Lemore and my closest ally and future husband, Aegon Blackfyre."

"I have." Arya chewed her lip. "He rescued me from King's Landing. He promised to return me home to Winterfell." The girl's eyes were fixed on Rhaellon.

When Dany rose an eyebrow at me, I said, "I promised that when we sail to Westeros, we'll be taking Arya with us with the express purpose of returning her to her brother. Should we also gain her sister as well, we'll return them both to Robb Stark and bring justice on behalf of their father." _Should they bend the knee that is_ , though the last bit didn't need to be said in Arya's hearing.

The J-word got to Daenerys. "That I can promise, Lady Arya. We will do all in our power to see you returned to Winterfell and have the Lannisters and the usurper Joffrey be brought to justice. I was told you were found on the streets. I hope you are feeling better here. How are you enjoying the manse?"

Arya shrugged. "Fine, I suppose. Do I have to wear this dress? It's stupid."

Lemore flashed a look of disappointment. No doubt she spent a while picking them as Arya Stark bathed. I rolled my eyes. "Be polite. No doubt you hurt the septa's feelings with those words. You should apologise now, little lady."

Arya folded her arms, staring defiantly at me. "I am Arya of House Stark. My father he . . ." Her face faltered and tears filled her eyes. Lemore put a gentle hand on her shoulder and, to my surprise, Arya didn't shrug it off. "W-when can I return to him?"

"Robb?"

She nodded. "You said you'll return me to him. But you took me here. I'm your prisoner."

"Guest," Daenerys said, all diplomatic.

I nodded along. _You don't have the ability to leave the manse, go out the sight, are being carefully watched and have an invisible sword pressed against your throat. But don't worry, you are no prisoner_. "Consider your stay here akin to being a ward to a wealthy lord. When we finally set sail for Westeros to remove the usurper's head and install the true queen upon the Iron Throne, you're coming with and, in that time, we can negotiate with your brother."

"When will that be?"

"It depends. We are not to set sail for a while, it must be said, but you are safer here than in the streets of King's Landing. Fear not. We'll soon send ravens informing the North you are here with us. He'll know you are safe and have no reason to fear for you." That was a lie. Stark wouldn't be getting anything until we finally invade. Secrecy was very important.

"They won't want me." The tears started again and she began to gnaw her lips. There was a brief silence.

Dany was confused. "Why wouldn't your own kin desire your return? What makes you say that?"

"I want to see them again. Mother and Robb, Jon and Bran. Even Sansa and baby Rickon. But . . . with my hair like this . . . after what happened . . . my clothes being soiled and being forced to steal, my lady mother may not want me back. Not after what happened."

Septa Lemore gave me a look of shock, Dany a look of concern. I replied by shaking my head. "Arya, your mother will want you back. Both you and Sansa. She's your mother. Your safety is her primary concern. From what you told me on the ship, I know that if she could fight her way through King's Landing to get you back, she most certainly would. I guarantee you this, when you see each other, she'll fall to her knees and hug you and refuse to let go."

"Are you lying? Many lied to me. Father and Desmond and others. So many."

"Why would I lie? It's not like doing so would benefit me in that regard. At some point we'll try and reunite you with your sister and then you'll be together when we reunite you with Lady Catelyn and Lord Robb. We only ask you co-operate."

She frowned. "I don't want this. I want my family, I want Winterfell. I want Jon. I don't want you or wherever this is. I don't want to be dressed like a doll or have stinky stuff in my hair. I don't want a septa. I know a dragon's word are false. Uncle Brandon and grandfather believed you to be trusted and died for it. I wish you were all gone."

" _Stop!"_ I shouted, now angry. "You can insult me all you like but I refuse to let you talk bad of Septa Lemore or anyone else here. Lemore wasn't asked to do this and helped you out the goodness of her heart. You will now apologise to her." She scowled fiercely but after the longest staring competition, Arya did submit and grumbled one out. It wasn't good enough, but I let it slide. "I assume you want to keep that sword."

Her eyes widened like a pair of large grey eggs. "Needle."

"Queer name for a sword, I must confess. Named after your favourite pastime?"

"I hate needle work." She folded her arms petulantly.

Daenerys smiled. "But the fact you have a sword means you don't mind poking holes into things. Where did you get it?"

"Jon. He gave it to me as a gift before joining the Night's Watch. Mickon made it and has his seal. I want it back."

"Mayhaps you'll tell me more of this Jon. Is he a brother? A cousin?"

"He's my brother . . . half-brother in truth. Jon Snow."

"Bastard brother," I said. "The fact he gave you a sword instead of a doll and the way you said his name, you must have been close. Mayhaps you can tell me more about him some time." By skipping his chapters I did blind myself to that part of the story. I needed some information on the guy's character. _If he's anything like the show, Jon Snow's a dimwit with all the charisma of_ _sawdust_. I had this strange feeling both of us might end up crossing swords so it would be foolish to not to be prepared. "If you are good and don't do anything stupid, I might even be willing to provide lessons on how to use that thing. The design of such makes it a decent enough weapon for a bravo. Have you had any training?"

"I did. Syrio Forel taught me the water dance in King's Landing. He—"

"I was taught by him once, before he sailed to Westeros."

That caught Arya's interest. "Truly?"

I smirked. "Short man. Bald with a nose like an eagle's beak? Called you a sword, blindfold you and made you chase cats?"

"He did. Did you?"

"That and more. He taught me himself when father said I should have my own master-at-arms. I had him among other tutors, but it was Syrio who taught me the most, and did so with the Braavosi water dance. Do you know what happened to him?"

Arya bit her bottom lip. "They came after me, the red cloaks. They demanded I come with them but Syrio stepped between us and fought them. He killed five before Ser Meryn Trant tried to get me himself. Syrio blocked his way and they fought. I don't know what happened. I ran. I ran so far."

"He was the First Sword of Braavos and bravos don't run when another exposes their steel." _He's dead though_. I knew it was going to happen so it felt like I allowed him to die. _He chose to act and save the girl when he didn't have to. I had no part in it._ Illyrio told me it was Varys who recommended Syrio to Lord Eddard so they might have had a plan for him. "I'm not as good as your dancing master, though I can show you a thing or two from what I learnt from him. What do you say?"

Arya grinned.

 **...**

I was sitting at the desk, head buried in my journal outlaying the plot of ice and fire and figuring out all the butterflies that would be unleashed with Arya's capture when there was a knock at the door. There were noises on the other side, but the voices were too muffled to make out a word. I knew it wasn't the servants coming to bring me food for I had a bowl of uneaten porridge that'd been pushed to the side, gone cold and now being happily consumed by a bluebottle that buzzed annoyingly until noticing it.

The door swung open and I slammed shut the book. Since resurrecting in this world I had kept a few documents secret such as stratagems and now obsolete blueprints, but the most important was my journal listing all the events of the books in more or less perfect order. I hadn't got anything wrong but, then again, most predictions were yet to come to fruition. Entering were two large men, not the Unsullied who protected the manse but Blackheart's personal guard. One stepped forward. He was tall and gaunt, his face marred by a crudely healed gash running down his cheek. He didn't look friendly. "Aegon Blackfyre, come with us. With haste. We don't have time."

Nothing in his tone provided me the option to refuse and the cold look didn't say it was to congratulate me on anything. They seemed to believe I might refuse given their hands graced the hilts of their swords. I didn't know why I would unless I had cause to defend myself and, because I was unarmed, any attempt was effectively suicide. But instead of looking meek, I said, "Who are you and what does the captain-general want of me?"

The stranger eyed me wearily. "Ser Duncan Webber, if it please milord."

"Webber? From the Reach?"

"Aye. My ancestor was a cousin to the Lord of Coldmoat and fought for King Daemon the Black Dragon and now I serve the Golden Company as my father had done, his father before him, and his father before him. Do not delay. Come with us."

"Do I have a choice? You both wear swords and I'm armed only with a quill. Should I make a valiant last stand I don't think it'll turn out well for me. May I ask where you are taking me, good ser?"

The man grew annoyed. "All will be answered in due time. Must I needs carry you?"

"I thank you for the offer, but I'll walk. I need to stretch my legs and I don't want to be an unnecessary burden."

Both guards led me down the empty hall to the innermost courtyard where the rest of Myles' protectors stood in a hollow square and inside their formation was an erect platform with a thick wooden stake. The wall of men was a solemn lot, armoured in smoky grey plate with scarlet cloaks. Outside the square were what remained of my century, unarmed and unarmoured, grumbling amongst themselves while a few took wagers. Damon, Qarro and Rickard stared indignant at Blackheart who was standing strong against a verbal thrashing from Septa Lemore. I didn't hear what she was saying but what I did catch was her declaring she'd never forgive him and sooner or later he'll find snakes in his bed. To the side was Haldon busy checking a prepared collection of medicines. The Halfmaester noticed my entrance and gave me a sympathetic look. Next to him was Lyra and Vaquo mumbling amongst themselves, the latter giving me a reassuring nod while the former turned away. Daenerys was surrounded by her handmaidens and giving me nervous looks, then to the side were Dalabhar and Duck surrounded by an armed escort.

As soon as he saw me, Myles broke away from the one-sided conversation with Lemore. He didn't wear mail, but instead a tunic of supple leather, a studded bronze belt and a rustic green cloak of heavy wool draped over his shoulders. Blackheart didn't look like the commander of the Golden Company, and less so when I noticed the leather cord coiled around his arm. "I trust my men didn't give you any trouble, serjeant."

"They gave me no trouble, ser. Mind if I ask why I was brought here and why . . ."

"Captain-general. I urge you to be merciful and reconsider," Daenerys stepped forward with a grace in her step and determination on her face. "I disagree with his actions as much as you do, but he brought us a useful hostage instead of deserting and I believe that shows he doesn't deserve to be scourged. I order you not to follow through."

"You need to stand aside, Your Grace," Myles growled darkly. "You have no cause to stand in the way of judgement, nor do you hold any power here. You'll not interfere and if you don't return to where you were standing, I'll have my men carry you to your chambers and keep you there under guard."

"You can't do that."

"I can and will. You are only a child and have no business telling adults what to do." He turned to me. "Aegon has acted most shamefully in his conduct within the Company. He is a commander and an example to his men. But he left the manse without my leave and performed actions against the wishes of both myself and those we serve under. He might have in him the blood of Daemon Blackfyre but he is still a member of the Golden Company and swore to follow its rules and conduct himself properly. He shall now be punished for his transgression."

I inclined my head. As soon as I saw the whip, I knew what Blackheart was about to do. This wasn't just a punishment for me, but a warning to everyone about stepping out of line. If I, the Blackfyre, could be punished, it was certain the common soldiery wouldn't be afforded any sort of leniency. It would also help dispel the beliefs of my privileged standing that'd been running throughout the Company for some time. It'd been true I'd been given liberties because of my heritage, but I'd stepped too far and needed to to be pulled back.

Instead of resisting or begging and otherwise making a fool of myself, I straightened my back, relaxed my shoulders and gave a nod. I was no callow boy. To do anything other than accept my fate would be unseemly and only make the punishment worse. Blackheart had a fearsome reputation and held high standards. He was tough but he was fair. "If the captain-general decrees it, I would be punished in whatever way he decides is worthy of my crime. But may the captain-general be willing to allow me a request before the deed is performed?"

"You may speak but what you ask may not be granted if deemed improper."

I bowed by head, thanking him for hearing me out. "I plead guilty for my misconduct and actions you are sentencing me to. I simply ask you don't punish Duck and Dalabhar. I was the one who ordered they come with me. They had objected but had no way of refusing though they did all in their power to convince me against going to King's Landing. It would be unjust for them to be punished for my actions."

Blackheart's pale-green eyes never left mine. "They are just as guilty as you. They should have warned me of your intentions, but both failed to do so. They have broken the rules set out by Bittersteel and aided in your wrongdoings. They will be punished accordingly. The Summer Islander will be scourged first."

He was pushed forward by one guard and others flanked him. Dalabhar didn't resist though. Neither he nor Rolly begged nor sprouted denials or even pleas of mercy. Instead they silently followed orders to step forward and be subjected to the whip. Dalabhar climbed the shallow platform and embracing the pole where he was tied up to keep from collapsing. As Myles Toyne unfurled the whip, the Summer Islander's dark-red tunic was torn off to reveal an ebony back covered with crisscrossing scars. I couldn't count the number, but it was clear Dalabhar was no stranger to this.

Myles Toyne performed a few practice blows at the ground before him. The lash was at the end of a long handle, the leather knotted and freshly oiled. Daenerys bit her lip and averted her gaze, tears filling her eyes while Septa Lemore offered comforting words and pressed a hand to Dany's shoulder, but neither attempted to stop it. Illyrio stood to the side and was grimacing. He was the only one with the power to stop Toyne yet he stood his ground. Even inside the manse, it was Blackheart who held the reins. _Monopoly of violence; the supreme authority from which all other authorities derive_.

"Five-and-twenty lashes for both Ser Rolly Duckfield and Dalabhar Ebaharo for aiding in the actions of Aegon Blackfyre who will receive the same number and an extra ten."

The crack of the whip echoed through the air. It struck Dalabhar square in the back, tearing flesh from his previous scars and cutting deep, yet the man stood defiant, only grimacing with clenched teeth. Then came the series of strikes, each one harder than the last. The skin was ripped asunder and dark blood ran down his spine. Some of the men were placing wagers initially but their betting came to an end as they stood only to watch. By the end of it, Dalabhar was hugging the pole, his back and shoulders having been cut to ribbons. Not once did he scream. The most he did was a soft curse after a practically savage blow. Upon being released and helped up, my adjutant smirked at me through laboured breathing and said, "felt like a summer breeze." His face was a grimace though, and he limped straight to Haldon who was awaiting with milk of the poppy.

Next up was Duck. Either he was faking confidence or Dalabhar's lack of reaction gave him some reassurance as Rolly stepped forward less reluctantly than expected and was held in place with leather bonds. Doreah burst out crying and it was Daenerys who comforted her, embracing the larger woman and whispering words into her ear. Duck pressed his head against the wood, softly praying for the Warrior to give him strength. The lash struck his back and Duck cursed aloud. It only went downhill from there. He cursed and cried and shouted at anybody and everybody. In no way was it dignified as the scourge flashed, forming long bloody lines across his back, cutting into flesh and the muscles underneath.

The sight of both of them suffering was sickening. Made worse by the fact it was _my_ fault. If I didn't order them along they wouldn't be suffering this. Part of me wanted to close my eyes and turn away and ignore what was happening. But I couldn't shy away, no matter how much I wanted to. That would be shameful. This was part of the punishment as well. With the same principles of a whipping boy, Myles knew I wouldn't be able to stand watching my friends get hurt. Each blow made me feel increasingly guilty and those scars would be carried with them for the rest of their lives. Every time I saw them, I would be reminded of this moment.

When it was done, Rolly's boots were full of blood and the only thing holding him up were the binds to the wooden pole. Sweat mingled with blood and buzzing around him were fat black flies. As soon as he was released, Duck near collapsed and guards dragged him to a concerned Haldon. Septa Lemore ran forward, muttering a prayer that sounded more like a curse. No one spared me a sympathetic look.

The captain-general turned to me with pale-green eyes I imagined belonging to Lord Tywin Lannister, cold eyes that held no love and instead said, "This is your fault, boy. Your fault they've been scourged." I agreed with those unspoken words and without being asked, walked towards the pole. I didn't even need them to remove my tunic, I did that myself, pulling it off and throwing it to the side. A show of strength but inside I was panicking. Pulsing in my chest was the heavy beating of my heart, my belly was full of knots and my legs felt like they'd turned to lead, but I powered through, taking one step after another. Across the courtyard, Duck was being given opium and Haldon was inspecting the wounds. Doreah was telling him how brave he was, how strong and noble, but the knight didn't seem to be hearing her.

I decided I wasn't going to scream. I was a commander of the Golden Company; I was a future dragon rider and soon-to-be prince consort of Westeros. If Myles wanted me to repent and beg for mercy, it wasn't in me to give him the pleasure. Upon them tiring me to the pole with thick leather that didn't permit me to move an inch, it was the wait that was the worst. It was like the world slowed down to a halt and Myles seemed to be in no rush to begin either.

I didn't see the leather come down. The sound was a thunderclap, and I screamed.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the wait. Work's been busy and this chapter required more editing than expected. After what happened, Aegon needed to be punished. If not a Blackfyre, he would have been executed for desertion after having his feet chopped off as a warning to everyone else if the Windblown are anything to go by. The main reason I did this was because in GoT I do feel Jon Snow should have got disciplined for near abandoning the Night's Watch such as a public flogging at the very least (to Alliser Thorne's complete delight) but instead got nothing, likewise when he assaulted his commanding officer with a knife. I didn't want to be a hypocrite and give Aegon a free card because he's the protagonist. I hoped you enjoyed this chapter and once again I'd like to thank those who've reviewed, followed and favourited. Your support means a lot.

Comments:

Tartarus0884: It is Myles who holds the final authority. YG is only a serjeant and subservient to higher ranking officers. Bittersteel commanded the Golden Company and the Blackfyres served as junior commanders, though the claimant to the IT would be a trickier matter. Aegon's heritage allows him to punch above his weight but the GC is highly regimented with a strong military culture so insubordination being squashed is more important than Targaryen exceptionalism.

Arnumart: Arya does hold political importance. The Lannisters claim to have both her and Sansa to strengthen their position but being revealed to have only one would show them for liars and further damage their credibility. Also having a hostage is nothing to sniff at and can be used to strengthen the dragons hand against Robb.

fanfic-addict91: The number of lashes isn't much different than what many suffered in the roman legion and it's less than the British navy. It can show how little power rulers have when the army decides they're not listening and does its own thing. Might serve as a good warning for later.

VladImpaler: Cheers. Arrogance is my favourite character flaw and I imagine it would be easy to get cocky in such a situation. I certainly would. The Watch isn't in the same position for it's a penal colony and needs to be harsh to keep everyone in line else the black brothers rebel like they'd done in their history during the reign of King Jaehaerys.

Tom2011: There isn't much of a physical age gap between them but mentally it's a different story. YG here is only one year older than Daenerys at most, so younger than what Aegon VI Targaryen would be. They would be thankful for Arya's capture but everyone's angry at the moment and Aegon was punished for principle and as a warning.

TMI Fairy: The raven was more metaphor for sending a message, and I wouldn't say the maesters have a monopoly considering Doran Martell has Feather's who isn't a maester but knows how to tend ravens. Like Lady Dustin, he doesn't seem to trust the Citadel. Aegon's legend will be growing for both good and ill.

hideki667: As Joncon says, discipline is mother's milk to the Golden Company so it would be strange for Aegon not to be punished. He bent the knee, handing authority to Daenerys. Myles Toyne won't be murdered by his own officers for disciplining an insubordinate, nor would he become useless for he still commands one of the most effective armies in the world. The Wall is meant to be a penal colony/military order where families and politics is forgotten (at least in theory) and because its full of criminals I would expect discipline to be very harsh to keep them in line. What you said is true in regard to them trying to cosy up to the Starks and did allow Tyrion to make fun of them during the feast. But the Watch treated Jon very laxly with Joer Mormont's idea of military discipline being, "you tried to murder your superior officer? Go to your cell and think about what you did."

victorsan12345: I do like dynamic characters so they will go downhill at points in the story to help push character development later down the line. Aegon knew of the consequences but ignored them for he believed capturing Arya was more important in the long term.


End file.
